Aftermath
by Hesiod
Summary: It's been a year since the Kirkwall Rebellion and Hawke as viscount proved to be tumultuous at best. Hawke hires an old acquaintance to smuggle Bethany to Nevarra and out of the thick of things; instead, Bethany finds herself in the middle of political schemes to usurp Nevarra's king and tip the balances of an impending war. Bethany/Athenril, Bethany/F!Hawke
1. Chapter 1

**Set after the events of Dragon Age 2.**

**(Athenril/Bethany, F!Hawke/Bethany); Multichapter**

**Chapter 1: Rated M**

**See the bottom for the Author's Note.**

* * *

><p>Athenril's not a fool. She's clever – maybe too clever – and she knows how to turn a bit into a sovereign, given enough charm. She's quick on her feet and a skilled with a blade; level-headed in the worst of situations and a wordsmith in the best. In her type of life, those things are worth something. Isarius used to say that a silver tongue is the greatest survival tool there is. These days, he might change that saying to just a silver. But still, it's worth something.<p>

She'd like to think that three decades on the streets made her strong- that she's all those things and then a sharp edge, too. Her reputation warranted it. Demanded it.

She is.

She's good at enough things to make a business run smooth and to keep her hands out of cuffs on most occasions. And that's enough for her. She can handle herself. She's not bleeding in a ditch somewhere or behind bars permanently. She's not piss broke or addicted to the Rose. . . She should be happy with the way things are. Consistent. Decent.

She's not.

It's a tendril, really. A small nag at the back of her sore neck on some days, when deals don't pay off or she's running to save her skin again. Passing thoughts of filling in the missing gaps of a life that isn't easy and isn't always pleasant. She doesn't have the luxury of entertaining such dreams and she's certainly not the type - but in fleeting moments when she thinks about it rationally, she knows she _could_ do it.

Her small time smuggling ring had grown into something of prominence, even among the other cartels. She had enough coin to settle down where the air didn't reek of sweat and ocean, and the ground wasn't grimed with old blood and carried dirt. Kirkwall was a piece of shit anyway. She could get out of there – Antiva if she didn't think she'd piss off enough people to have Crows on her tail within a week. Maybe Ferelden, then. She'd met a few doglords that were decent enough.

Since the city went to shit nearly a year ago, there had never been a better time. Forget infrastructure, the change was _visible_. Tides were turning, businesses were restructuring – recovering from the devastation, and Hawke as viscount (which was almost laughable in its own right) gave way to possibility that might have been unthinkable in the past.

It would be easy for Athenril to slip away; to hand out a few favors to keep people from bothering her as she settles down; to dismiss the threat of a knife to her throat while she sleeps soundly. . . On some days, it's a comforting thought. One that might one day merit a reality.

Instead, she finds herself walking among crates of Sehronian sugars, counting inventory.

The day is sweltering, the heat turning nearly everything into something undesirable. She takes measured steps, a quick sweep of practiced eyes telling her that the whole shipment is there. She opens a crate up, looking at the burlap sacks bundled within. She nods in approval to herself, thankful that sugars don't spoil – because based on the smell of the dock, everything else did.

Athenril calls over a lackey who's sitting with his feet dangling off the dock, toes disrupting the surface of the murky water. Another dog boy. If anything, Athenril preferred the Fereldens. They reminded her of . . . she doesn't even know - definitely not of home, because that doesn't make any sense - but something of the sort. She dismisses the unwelcome feeling of nostalgia as quickly as it arises.

Athenril waits until the boy is in front of her and then keeps him waiting a couple seconds longer than necessary. She looks him up and down. He's new and she can't quite remember his name – Lewis? Levvy? Isarius recruited him some time last month but she hadn't talked to him much yet. Not that it mattered, anyway; the kid had a weak stomach and a stumbling step. It wouldn't be long until he realizes that he's not cut out for this life. Or until Athenril tells him so.

"Klave isn't here today," Athenril finally says, watching for his reaction. He merely nods, a bead of sweat dripping down an attentive brow. "Do you know why?"

The boy nods again. "He got caught stealing. He knicked a piece of your last shipment – the one with the tobacco," he clears his throat before adding, "You threw him out."

"Yes," Athenril says, decisively. There's no delight in throwing any kid back to the gutters, but people aren't worth anything if you can't trust them. There's barely enough trust in her circle for her to feel safe sleeping in the same place every night, let alone give second chances. She takes three stamped coins from a pouch on her belt and pushes them into the boy's sweaty palms. "Take a walk, will you? Tell our buyers that I don't want the products on this dock for too long – the city guards are going to want to do their rounds quickly today."

The boy nods again, spinning on his heel to leave Lowtown. Athenril watches him in her peripherals, but her attention is now on the lone figure coming down the steps to the waterfront. There's a stark contrast between dark skin and white robes, and when her eyes pick out the details she sees that it's Isarius, walking towards her from the distance. Still dressed in Orlesian finery, he looks out of place there in the crevice of Kirkwall. Her mouth forms a hard line. He's early.

Athenril makes eye contact with him, briefly, and then starts away. She walks at a slow enough pace that in a couple minutes he eventually catches up and matches stride beside her. They continue to walk the docks, silent for a couple moments. His optimistic bounce is a comforting sign that business went well.

"You weren't gone two weeks," Athenril says, finally turning her chin to look at him. "Did things go as planned?"

There's a pause as the dark-haired Rivaini clasps his hands, as if deciding where to start. "No," He says. But slowly, a crooked grin spreads through his features. "It went better." His eyes shine with optimism. "I didn't have to go far; the contact actually met me in Starkhaven. He showed me his shipment, and I suppose he mislead us but considering the nature of things lately . . . He did what he had to-"

Athenril snorts. "That's comforting."

"I know how it sounds, but he offered incredible rates. We'd be crazy to refuse his business," the man says. He picks at the ruffles of his collar, loosening the tight choke it had on his sweaty neck. Orlesian fashion was a useless advantage in Kirkwall, and he did feel rather silly in the costume. "My dear Athenril, there are things to be done."

"Things are always being done," Athenril muses, watching him fiddle with the extravagant neck piece. She lifts a brow. "The shipment, though?"

Isarius shakes his head, reaching into the leather satchel strung across his shoulders. He pulls out a small vial, tiny enough to place under the tongue if one had to hide it quickly. He holds it out to Athenril, who picks it up between her thumb and forefinger, examining it close to her face.

"Poison?" she asks, turning the vial up and down. The shimmering blue liquid inside had an enchanting quality to it – a beauty that was captivating and enthralling and . . . Her expression hardens. "_Lyrium_." she corrects herself, passing it back to Isarius with a single, sharp movement.

"Precisely," he says, but a single look to his companion and his grin quickly fades. "You look displeased."

"I don't deal in lyrium."

"Well - not yet," Isarius begins.

Athenril stops walking, grinding her heel in the ground to face him. "Not yet, not ever." He's a full foot taller than her, but it does nothing to take the bite from her words. After all, she faces off with bigger men every day of her life. "There's blood in the lyrium trade. I chase coin only as far as I can protect myself."

Isarius smiles uneasily and scratches the back of his neck. A negotiating habit. "Come on, Athenril. _Think_. With the lyrium purge Hawke's started, do you know how much coin we could make? There's infinite demand for this and we'll be one of the few with a steady supplier." He places a hand on her shoulder, but a warning look causes him to retract it immediately. "We wouldn't deal in bulk and we'd just be the means and the ways for the product – weekly shipments to ex-templars and a couple taverns that'll distribute it themselves. We wouldn't have to find our own buyers. It's easy money. It's so sodding easy that we can sit on our arses between shipments."

Athenril crosses her arms. She knows a fishy deal when she's presented with one. A contact who lies about their product isn't a reliable one. And on any front, lyrium meant dealing with ex-templars - and ex-templars often meant trouble.

She sighs, sizing up Isarius with a scrutinizing eye just long enough to make him uncomfortable. There's a hopeful smile flickering on his face because he knows she's been looking for a long-term operation. Something she can count on. A job where she doesn't have to chase around buyers and get her hands dirty for product. He thinks this is it, but it's not.

She had learned the hard way - through a stint that put a whip to her back and chains to her wrists years ago - that no matter how good a deal, how enticing the coin, business is only business if you have it under control. It was a rule that Isarius had yet to learn.

"The punishment for dealing lyrium is death." Athenril says, flatly. "We're not going to risk our hide for a handful of sovereigns. I'd like to think our shitty lives are worth a little more than that."

"Athenril –" Isarius goes to protest, but the elf cuts him off curtly.

"Enough, Isarius. We are done here."

* * *

><p>Bethany's steps leave footprints behind her; she had stepped out to cross the courtyard where the rain fell heavily. Much like the mood of late, Kirkwall poured.<p>

Documents are clutched in her hand, simplistic magic having kept them dry on her walk back to her quarters. Cadence, Orsino's second-in-hand and newly appointed First Enchanter had called for her to oversee letters from the College. The College had preponed their convention in light of the Kirkwall Rebellion and there was much to be settled.

Change was upon them.

Bethany pushes open the wooden door, entering her darkened room. She starts for a moment, only to release her breath. Hawke is sleeping face down in her bed, arms clamped around her pillow and folded stubbornly beneath her head. Not an unfamiliar sight these days.

Not entirely _welcome_, either.

With a sigh, she places the documents on the table and dons her soaking robe. She moves to the mirror - choosing to clean herself up before dealing with the Hawke situation - and lights a candle with only a wave of her hand. The room turns orange. Bethany wipes her face and dries her hair as much as possible, shooting a disapproving look at Hawke's sleeping form. Her robes are crumpled at the foot of the bed (Hawke never really cared for Orlesian finery), abandoned in whatever late-night fatigue or drunken stupor that had brought her there in the first place. Even in the darkness Hawke is pale - much like a ghost.

It didn't happen often, only enough for Bethany not to be surprised when she stumbles upon a visiting Hawke from time to time. Bethany usually reprimands her for coming: what would Kirkwall think of their new viscount spending a night in the Circle?

She shakes her head; Hawke might think herself impervious, but she's not.

It's a fool's act, coming here so late at night - coming here when no plausible business could be used to explain away the visit. But Hawke is stubborn - even moreso when she's had too much wine. People would surely question and so on most nights, Bethany sends Hawke away.

But on other nights, Hawke comes because the day is long and the times are dark, and those days Bethany _can't_ send her away. The days that Hawke doesn't smell of alcohol, but instead of blood; or the days that Kirkwall politics has gotten the best of her, Bethany knows that her sister can think of no where else to go. In each late night visit, Bethany knows that for all Hawke's iciness, she has a soft and aching heart.

Finishing up at the mirror, Bethany waves the flame to nothing and approaches the bed. Hawke's sleep is uninterrupted, back rising up and down slowly with each breath. The paper thin fabric of her shift hangs off one shoulder, exposing Hawke's snow-white back. Even with the limited view, there are still so many scars.

Bethany sits at the edge of the bed and frowns. She ought to send Hawke home. With someone who so stubbornly insists that she keep living quarters in both the Viscount's Keep and the Amell Estate, there is no excuse for her to be in one of the most undesirable places in Kirkwall. She places a tentative hand on Hawke's shoulder, and her sister stirs.

"Hawke," Bethany whispers. She gives a gentle squeeze and Hawke's eye cracks open a sliver. "Wake up, Hawke."

There's a moment of silence in which Hawke blinks away the blur of being roused from a much needed slumber. Her eyes focus on the comforting outline of what can only be her sister, hovering near.

"Bethany," Hawke says, her voice laden with sleep. She rolls over just enough to face her sister, a drowsy smile tipping her features.

"You can't stay here."

Hawke frowns, her glazed eyes proof that she had been drinking earlier. "Why not?"

"You know why. You're drunk," Bethany chides, her voice sterner than she's used to. "The viscount can't be seen sleeping in an enchanter's bed; it's not . . ." she falters for the right word, "- _appropriate_."

She swallows then, like the word is a lie. _As if any of this is appropriate_.

"Even if that enchanter is her sister?" A drunken smirk twists Hawke's expression to one of amusement. Her hand reaches up to cup Bethany's face, thumb brushing the corner of her parted lips.

"Especially so," Bethany says firmly. She wraps her fingers around Hawke's wrist, moving it away.

Hawke makes a face that is more like a whine than anything else. "After all these years I doubt we will be given away. I hate waiting;" Hawke's eye darken. "Six years is a long time to be without you," she slides her wrist from Bethany's grasp, choosing to instead align their hands and interlock their fingers. Bethany is already starting to pull away. "Plus, you never seem to complain _afterwards_."

"Enough, Hawke."

It's meant to be a soft retreat, but instead, Hawke just pulls Bethany close, rolling onto her back so that her sister towers over her. "That's one I haven't heard you say in bed before," she laughs, mirth crinkling the lines around her eyes.

Bethany's expression is stony, but she can feel her resolve melting away; their intertwined fingers provide a distracting warmth. Bethany's eyes sweep over her sister; flitting from blue eyes to ugly scar, swollen lips to porcelain chest, marked skin disappearing behind thin fabric. She imagines the rest - a thought that Hawke catches onto, presumably from the smirk that deepens on her face.

She looks down at her older sister, damp hair dangling down over her shoulders. It's a weak attempt this time, but Bethany tries again. "We can't keep doing this, Hawke. You know better."

_We both know better_, Bethany thinks wryly. Even in the past, the '_you shouldn't be_ _here'_s and the '_I should go'_s had never quite had the intended effect. Hawke has a way of getting what she wants and tonight was proving no different.

She brings her free hand up and slides it behind Bethany's neck, tugging her forward. She meets little resistance and Hawke pauses briefly against Bethany's mouth, breath tickling her lips. Bethany can smell the faint and distinct smell of Orlesian wine, but it becomes an afterthought - an irrelevant detail - once Hawke captures her mouth with a kiss. It's soft and drowsy, but there's a possessive desire. Slow like a fire that just catches.

It takes a moment for Bethany kiss back; to glide her lips along the warmth she's shamefully familiar with, to move against Hawke in synchronicity. Hawke must seek it out, but Bethany does commit. And it's all breathlessness from there.

Hawke pulls her close, pressing their bodies together. Hawke pulls so hard that Bethany think she's crushing her, though Hawke can handle it. Hawke can handle anything. It's not long before her hand has slipped underneath Bethany's shift, gliding along her curves, raking at her back. It's both fire and ice, burning Bethany like an ember and sending a chill that raises bumps on every part of her body. Bethany wonders if it's always been this way, or if she just rediscovers these sensations every time they come together anew. Their mouths part but their eyes don't, and Bethany wets her lips.

They really can't keep doing this.

But a part of her - an aching part that she keeps in the corners of her being - thinks that she at least owes her sister _this_. Hawke, who gave up everything to provide for their family. Hawke, who marched through a world of tragedy to do what was _right_. Hawke, who became so cold.

In moments like these; forbidden ones in darkness and in the midst of something that cannot last, Bethany sees a flicker of Hawke's old self. The self that existed before the Blight took everything and Kirkwall the rest. In her arms, Hawke is no longer the Champion of Kirkwall, no longer chained to the duties of Thedas; in these moments Hawke can belong to no one but herself, owe nothing but her attention.

And Bethany supposes it's better than nothing. To have for a moment is better than to not have at all. Perhaps Hawke knows that all too well.

"Let me stay and I'll be gone with first light. No one will see," Hawke whispers as she peppers kisses up Bethany's neck. She makes her way along her sister's jaw. A small whimper escapes Bethany's lips which makes Hawke's stomach twist with desire. "I promise."

Bethany swallows hard, but doesn't say anything. They both know that Hawke is going to stay the night; and they both know that Hawke will be gone in the morning, regardless if she promises or not.

* * *

><p>It's been almost a year since Meredith's fall. Hawke as viscount proved to be tumultuous at best with mixed support from templars, mages, and the people of Kirkwall alike. Still, the City of Chains was a city in shambles; still, the havoc wreaked from the Rebellion hung over the streets like a bad stench. A broken wall here, a torn home there. Scorch marks on the bricks. It was a slow, methodical recovery. Hawke was trying her best. The best that she could do with dwindling favour and the Chantry up her ass - that is.<p>

Kirkwall's Champion - the mage sympathizer who slaughtered them all; the refugee that stood by the Chantry and Knight-Commander Meredith, before killing _her_, too. The one left to pick up the pieces of a broken city. It was a poetic twist of dark humour that she should earn a crown for it.

And so Kirkwall stirred towards its uncertain future with a determined sort of irony.

With its lyrium purge calling for fresh new templars, with its streets a stray-curse away from riots, with nothing as it was and nothing as it should be, Kirkwall was the last place anyone wanted to stay.

Recent trend had mages migrating north - a citystate north of the mountains in Antiva seemed to herald them; a new dock system with an ever expanding harbor, coupled with resources from Serheron made alchemy an enticing new fad.

Bethany had thought on occasion about the Northern city-state Ulyuria, and wondered if she, too, should migrate. If she could somehow take a few mages from her circle and make the half-year journey; if she could somehow escape the Gallows without being hunted mercilessly, maybe she would. They'd be safe there.

Whispers of some mages hitting the riches and living in luxury also made their way back to Kirkwall. It was a rougher crowd up north, but it was a land of promise. A nice dream, if she were allowed have any.

Bethany wonders if Hawke would ever forgive her if she left Kirkwall.

* * *

><p>They're in the keep now. Hawke's hunched over her desk, intently studying some papers - stacks of documents sporting different seals. One hand is pressed to the side of her face, fingers grazing the bottom spikes of the cold metal crown adorning her head. The scar running along her nose is vibrant and red as ever, as if it were given to her only that morning. Bethany stands at the door like a stranger, hands clasped loosely around her staff.<p>

There's a courtier there too, standing by the chair. Bethany's never seen him before, but he bears the viscount's seal. He's on edge, evident by his tightly wound hands clasping and unclasping politely behind his back. As if he wishes she'd be more hasty, but knows it's above his place to complain.

Bethany waits for a couple minutes too, but Hawke doesn't acknowledge her. She gets this way in public, even around Bethany.

Cold like a corpse.

The younger Hawke grows impatient. "You send for me all the way from the Gallows and then you ignore me. What's your purpose, sister?" This wasn't a rare occurrence - Hawke is always busy these days. Not that the city hasn't seen results for it.

Blue eyes flick up towards Bethany, granting her a moment's attention before falling back down again. The courtier looks surprised at her familiarity – as if being siblings isn't enough to grant you such passage. But where Bethany comes from, shared blood is everything.

Hawke takes another couple seconds to finish reading her paper before finally straightening out the pile and placing it out on a further part of her desk.

"How are you?" Hawke asks. Her voice is stiff, almost too formal.

Bethany frowns. It was just the other week that Hawke had stumbled in and out of her bed; that Hawke had begged for her touch and pleaded for release. Talking as if Bethany was another of Hawke's courtiers was most irritating. "Fine."

"And your pupils?"

"Fewer. Kirkwall is losing its mages," Bethany states, matching Hawke's tone.

This isn't news and they both know it. Hawke and Bethany speak often enough to know what is going on in the city from both the Viscount Keep and the Gallows. Hawke is well aware of the mage problem sprouting in Kirkwall; she knows the city is chasing them away - that are whispers here and there _'apostates this, apostates that - blood mages, burn them all!' - _that even with greater freedoms within the Gallows, it is no more safe to walk outside with Circle robes than it is for an elf to walk up to a slaver. But what could Hawke do? She won't and can't get rid of the templars. She can't change the attitude of the people, or the squeezing oppression of being born with the wrong genetics. It was a cyclic issue with no solution, and even being viscount has its limitations.

So instead, Hawke shifts the conversation to the waiting courtier.

"Your documents prove important; we'll send a figurehead to Starkhaven in the morning. I'll have Bran accommodate your needs," Hawke says with a certitude that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

The courtier bows his head deeply and retrieves his stack of documents. "A fine choice, Champion."

Hawke gives him a nod of dismissal and both the girls are silent as he ducks out of the room. Like a plug pulled from a drain, the tension starts to seep away. Hawke looks as if she wants to exhale and rub her eyes, but she remains stubbornly erect. She regards her sister.

"You look unwell," The viscount says, knitting her brows together. "You could use some rest."

Bethany chuckles wryly. Was she really using the unwell card on her _now_? "A simple nap won't fix my problems, sister." She crosses the space of the office tentatively, bypassing the desk to stand at Hawke's side. "Look at these dark circles. You're the one who needs rest -" She touches her sister's face gently, the pale skin accentuating the dark half-moons. "Do you even sleep?"

Hawke covers the hand on her face with her own, reviling in the touch if only briefly. She closes her eyes, thinks of all the things she has lost - even this, moments like these with her sister, so warm and gentle. "Of course I do." Hawke says. It's a half-lie; she sleeps infrequently and unwell, but it's the only way she _can_ sleep, lately.

"Not enough, it seems. Would it pain you to take a break? I worry about you, you know." Bethany traces the dip of Hawke's chin, barely grazing the bottom lip.

Hawke pulls away. "There are things to be done."

"As always," Bethany sighs. How strange it is that their roles should switch so quickly; that Hawke can be so needy in the dark and so icy in the light. She lets her hand fall to her side.

Hawke is back to talking business, her voice bristling with the strange formality again.

"I'd like you to come to a council meeting."

Bethany quirks a brow, briefly thinking she's misheard her sister. Hawke's gaze is even. "It's in two weeks. Divine Justine V is sending some representatives from the West; I'd like a mage in the room to help smooth relations."

"What?" Bethany asks, almost bewildered._ Her_ in a council meeting? She can't be serious. Hawke tilts her head slightly, as if she doesn't understand the confusion. "Me? But Cadence is the First Enchanter."

"Cadence will be in Cumberland meeting with the College. There's no doubt Val Royeaux timed it that way; Cadence will have to go to the convention without any real information on the Chantry's agenda," Hawke says, her lips thinning unhappily. "It leaves the Circle in a vulnerable position; so I want you at the meeting to represent its best interests. You won't have much sway on their influence, but it'll prevent them from trying to cut corners." She takes a breath, and her expression softens. "And I want you there. I've always trusted your council."

"I wouldn't know what to say."

"Just be as you are, and you'll do fine." Hawke says calmly. Sensing Bethany's uncertainty, she presses on. "I wouldn't put you in a situation you can't handle, and I wouldn't involve you in state affairs unless I saw a benefit to it. Plus, I sense impending change-" she pauses, "The bad kind. I'd like to keep you close for this one."

"I . . ." Bethany trails. She bites her lip in deliberation. She wasn't versed in politics or state affairs . . . But if Hawke thought she could do it, maybe she was right. "Okay. That makes sense."

"Does that mean you will come?" Hawke asks.

"I suppose I could try."

If Hawke is relieved, she doesn't show it.

"Good. I'll make arrangements."

* * *

><p>Athenril's in the market standing at what used to be Vincento's shop in times past. These days it was a bit of a travelling merchant's stand; a structure with a table and roof that visiting merchants could peddle their wares from for a couple days without setting up permanently. They had their own arrangements with one another, but it was typically a different merchant every few weeks.<p>

Today it's Milan behind the counter; a western merchant who came semi-annually with all types of Orlesian and Nevarran wares. He looks weary, but she supposes it's the same expression all people bear when they return to Kirkwall after being so long away.

He's picking through a chest set up underneath the table, moving scrolls and trinkets alike from their locations. Athenril waits by the wooden beam, box tucked securely by her hip. She clears her throat, quietly. "You missed your usual mark, Milan, and I've been waiting. Summerday is a month past."

The man looks up, recognition and a smile spreading through his features. "My favourite elf," he greets with a nod of his head. Athenril lifts her chin in response. "I meant to come earlier, but I was detained in Tantervale."

"They search through your stolen wares?" she asks with a teasing shake of her head.

"I never steal."

"Neither do I." She sets the wooden box down on the table, sliding it closer to the merchant with careful fingers. "I almost sold your box to another shem who had an eye for crystals."

"Other _shems_ don't have quite as much coin as me," Milan says, eyes flicking downwards and fingers touching the unvarnished wood. He snaps open the latches, eyes lighting up with the shimmer of the gemstones. "And I might say, are not so generous."

Athenril smirks. "Precisely why I always wait."

There's a silence as Milan merely stares into the box, eyes flitting this way and that, mentally counting up the worth of the lot. And its worth is high – that much, Athenril knows.

"It seems you've been busy this year;" Milan says, tearing his eyes away from his prize. "This is a large batch."

"It's been a busy type of year."

"And a busier one to come," The merchant closes the box, relatching its locks. "Orlais has whispers. Nevarra has whispers. The whole damn Thedas is buzzing for change."

Athneril crosses her arms. "I'm listening."

By the end of the transaction, Athenril has a heavy bag of coin and stories from the west – hints of war, ripples of change; bits and pieces of rumours that don't quite have relevance yet: The Chantry is unhappy and the Grand Cleric is mobilising from Val Royeaux; Nevarra's king is sicker yet, and an heir must still be determined; Tantervale is crawling with military.

Athenril isn't concerned with politics, but she likes to keep updated about any news that might affect business. It's handy to know when blight or war erupts.

"Tantervale stirs. They're stopping everybody who passes through – suddenly interested in who's coming from where. It's swarming with Templars and soldiers alike. Their army is spilling onto the streets - _ha_, as if enforcement was ever a problem for them." Milan says.

"An army to fight whom?" Athenril asks. Tantervale hadn't had a real threat in ages.

His expression is grim. "That's the question, isn't it?"

Athenril hums in response, eyes sweeping around the market. It's the staff that catches her eye first. She's aware of the mage as soon as she comes into the bazaar, wearing long, fine robes despite the day's heat. The mage pulls her hood back, revealing a familiar face. _Bethany Hawke_.

Milan follows her gaze. "A mage travelling on her own. Stupid soul."

"Yes," Athenril agrees. Her feet move towards the girl of their own accord. "Stupid soul." she repeats.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello everybody. I hope that you stick around; this is set out to be a very long epic.<strong>

**I always include lengthy author's notes at the end of each chapter, clarifying things or just talking about the story in general. Feel free to skip over the long-winded ramblings, but I suggest you read this first one (it's a bit of an introduction to the story).**

**A/N: I'm a fan of Hawkcest and an even bigger fan of Athenril/Bethany pairing, so I decided to write a fic that fostered both.**

**I'll rate each chapter at the top either M or T. I don't really write smut opposed to referring to characters doing smutty things, so the ratings might be a bit blurry/subjective. In addition, I might be adding in shorts that I think fit in with the story, probably as their own chapters.**

**The bulk of my information comes from Dragon Age: The World of Thedas – Volume 1, as well as Dragon Age Wiki. It's been a while since I did a playthrough of DA2 (might be over a year), and I never actually did my own playthrough of DAO, so forgive me for any inaccuracies. This story will not be consistent with whatever occurs/has already been revealed in Dragon Age: Inquisition. This story diverges from Bioware's all-out war that breaks through in Dragon Age 9:38-9:40.**

**I tend to write in a bulkier novel-style way, opposed to the bits-and-pieces fanfiction way that's a bit more suited for this type of online reading. There's a lot of information to cover when delving into the DA lore. I'm also open to any corrections. Just let me know what you think!**

**Another note: I have an internship and my final semester of school going on until the summer; so updates will probably be infrequent. I _am_ in this for the long haul, though; so I'm choosing to just leave up the story for however long it takes me to complete it.**

**So yes, enjoy the story as it comes. I'll probably have long A/N at the bottom of every chapter if any of you care to hear me fire off.**

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bioware.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Rated M**

* * *

><p>Kirkwall smells like piss more than ever; especially in Lowtown. It doesn't help that the stifling heat makes the day's odors all the more pungent.<p>

She doesn't like coming to Lowtown, but picking and buying ingredients is best done in person. Sweat causes her robes to stick to her like another set of skin. She intends to make this trip a short one.

At the risk of being recognized, Bethany's removes her hood. _Ventilation._ It does little to cool her heated skin, but she feels better knowing she can see over her shoulder.

Lady Elegant fills a small sack with elfroot and another with dried embriums. She also packs a small box of various oddities that Bethany knows Cadence will want to experiment with – a vial of spider hairs, a couple foreclaws, and some Dalish laceflower seeds. They exchange kind words as well as coin, and Bethany turns to leave.

She's taken nearly four steps out of the bazaar before a voice halts her step. It comes from the alleyway behind her.

"People don't like mages around here anymore."

Bethany's breath hitches for a moment; she swallows and in a second she's spun around, purchases dropped to the floor with a thud, and staff pointed at the intruder.

A familiar, smirking face greets the bladed tip.

"Good reflexes; but that won't be necessary." Athenril steps out from the shadows with a crossing sidestep. She eyes Bethany cooly, ignoring the metal pointed at the underside of her chin. The elf seems amused. "I see you've become more paranoid. Not a bad trait in times like these."

Bethany hovers her staff at Athenril's face for another moment before slowly retracting it. Recognition fills her with mixed memories and Bethany doesn't know if seeing her old employer is a good or bad thing. She straightens her posture.

"Athenril," Bethany greets. She doesn't smile, but the elf does.

"It's been a while. I thought I'd say hello. It's not every day you see a Hawke roaming so far outside its cage."

The words brush a nerve in Bethany, but she's no longer the weak refugee that she was upon entering Kirkwall. Athenril might've intimidated her years ago, but not now. "People don't call me Hawke. That title belongs to my sister." Bethany says, not entirely sure what she's trying to prove - only that she ought to set that order straight.

Athenril stops herself from snorting rudely. "Brooding stare, no-play attitude, and a weapon at my face within the first sentence. My girl, you're more of a Hawke now than when I met you ten years ago." Cut from the same thread. Made from the same material. Athenril almost thinks to add 'quick to take offence' to her list, judging from the girl's souring expression, but she keeps it to herself. Instead, she tries to lighten the mood with a small truth. "Though, if I'm choosing sides . . . I still like you better."

"Time has a way of changing things," Bethany says, as if that was sufficient information to explain away the better part of a decade.

Athenril shrugs, "Not all things," she says, and Bethany isn't sure what she's referring to.

There's a beat and Bethany feels uneasy under the elf's watchful eye. She starts to apologize so that she can leave sooner. "I'm sorry about almost hitting you. I thought you were-"

"- an attacker? An anti-mage enthusiast?" Athenril finishes, smirk reappearing. Bethany says nothing, confirming the statements. "Lucky for you, I don't see the point in wasting resources and risking my neck for an idiot's cause. But I very well could have been. You should be more careful."

Bethany frowns. "I am careful."

The elf chuckles, propping an elbow on the stacked crates in the alley. Her brow is damp with the heat, too; but it suits her, giving her a faint shine and a more vibrant glow. She looks as if she hasn't aged at all. "A pretty thing like you walks into Lowtown with a 7-foot stick, Orlesian robes, and heads straight to Elegant's potion booth. Every person in the Bazaar can tell you're a mage."

Bethany stumbles on her words. "I- . . I was goi-"

Athenril waves her hand in dismissal. "I'm just looking out for you, Bethany." The corner of her lip tugs upwards. "Old habit, I guess."

Words seeming to fail, Bethany drops her gaze. "Thanks," she murmurs.

Athenril crosses her arms and takes the time to consider Bethany. She tilts her head, eyes sweeping. It's been almost a decade since they've seen each other. Years ago that soft-hearted, idiot Hawke had let one of her runners make off with a shipment of goods - needless to say, it was the end of _that _partnership. Athenril shook her head at the memory; it had ended a good thing. A reliable pair of hands are always been hard to come by. Half the recruits aren't worth their coin and the other half would spill her secrets for less.

But Bethany was different.

Though Hawke was skilled, Bethany brought her own advantages. Unlike her stubborn fool of a sister, Bethany could actually follow instructions to exact precision; she was adaptable and determined - more ready to learn than to protest. Athenril never had to worry about Bethany turning a job awry or shoving a knife in her turned back. On top of that, having a mage at her disposal was very useful. Though Athenril would never admit it, she knew her spot in the underworld - even among the cartels - was helped greatly by the apostate.

If only she didn't follow Hawke around like a lost puppy. The idiot.

Athenril wonders if that's still the case.

Though changed, Bethany still looked to be a nervous thing. Harder, but still nervous. Confident in her own abilities, but still unsure of what to do with them. But she did seem better yet, for some reason Athenril couldn't quite place. Maybe a part of her was just relieved that the Circle hadn't done worse to her, as rogue apostate stories usually suggested about the Gallows.

She shrugs off the thought.

"Time did well, it seems. You look good," Athenril muses. She juts her chin at the ground where Bethany had dropped her goods. "Don't forget your ingredients."

Bethany looks down. She had indeed, if temporarily, forgotten about her purchases. "I won't." She bends down to pick them up, having to place a couple pieces of elfroot back into their sack.

A couple coterie men enter the market and Athenril watches them in her peripherals. She changes her angle so they can't see her face. As usual, she finds herself having stayed in one place for too long.

The reunion was . . . stirring.

She looks down at the younger Hawke, gathering the items that she naively risked her life for. The kid could use a lesson in street ethics. The elf shakes her head and silently wishes the mage luck; but instead it comes out as,

"Don't come back to Lowtown, Bethany. They'll probably kill you."

By the time Bethany finishes with the elfroot and looks up at the alley, Athenril is already gone.

* * *

><p>Hawke pulls off her hood only when Varric comes and sets down a pint in front of either of them. Her fingers lace around the lukewarm ale, thumbs brushing at the rim of the cup she isn't sure has been cleaned. Much like the days she used to frequent the tavern.<p>

"Deigning to visit Lowtown again, Champion?" Varric asks, taking a seat at the head of the long table. He sits back, bringing his ale to rest on the arm of the chair. "The Hanged Man doesn't often see High Town patrons anymore. Not since that crown fell on your head and stayed there."

"I do miss those days," Hawke says with a small smile. She hadn't been around in a while. Her few friends were dispersed now, busy with their own endeavors, but still, Hawke should like to see them more. At least this dwarf, who'd given her her start. "Drinking mediocre ale has become low on my list of priorities lately . . . There's too much to do."

"Too busy saving Kirkwall from itself, then." Varric grins wrly. "One sombre look at a time."

"Why do people always say that?"

"Because you're as happy as an abomination, I'd say." Varric lifts his glass. He chuckles. "Drink your so-called mediocre ale, the nectar of my little palace. You'll be better for it."

"You know, you've more than enough coin to move out of the Hanged Man by now." Hawke says. She brings the cup to her mouth, the bitter taste jogging memories of after-journey merriment. Her, Isabela, Fenris, Varric . . . a band of triumphant misfits.

"That's assuming I want to leave," Varric says. He looks at home there, sitting in his throne of a chair. The mighty hearth casts a warm glow throughout the place, which was always buzzing with excitement. Perhaps in some ways, this was a better home than any High Town estate.

Hawke pulls out an envelope from her robes. She places it on the table, sliding it over to the dwarf. "That's what I came to ask. I figured you'll go stir crazy without a new adventure, and I have a job befitting for you and your . . . _charisma_." Hawke says, tentatively. "If you want."

The dwarf touches the corner of the envelop, turning it to face him. "You know me well enough. Bianca hasn't had nearly enough action since you stopped being at the heart of Kirkwall's shenanigans. You have my attention." Varric says. His gaze falls to the golden seal, intricate and unique to Starkhaven. A curious grumble leaves his lips, and he taps the seal. "Word from Starkhaven?"

"A warning."

"Of?"

Hawke frowns into her cup, eyebrows furrowing deeply. "Plans. Schemes. Idiocy," she begins. She looks around the room, just to be certain no stray ears are listening, and then back at the dwarf. "Tantervale swells with a growing force." Her voice is hushed and certain. "They know we've just gone through civil destruction; they will strike while Kirkwall is weak and fragmented. . . Lord Hadir plots - or should I say, preaches about uniting the Free Marches. A three-city Chantry base is too attractive an offer for Val Royeaux to refuse; in addition, Orlais has their own plans. There is no doubt they will come to an agreement. Orlais has never had a better chance of reclaiming middle Thedas," she stops talking as a drunk patron stumbles his way up the stairs, spilling his drink with each step. She waits for him to enter his room and continues speaking when the door is shut. "There are reports of movements, rumours of discussions being held . . . It won't be long until they're at our doorstep."

Varric crosses his arms. "Uniting the Free Marches? Impossible. Starkhaven would never allow that."

"Starkhaven will do what's best for itself," Hawke replies. "Their ties are strong with the Chantry, their economies tied with Tantervale. The merge would only benefit them and Kirkwall is a weak ally to have right now. We are at a disadvantage."

Varric shakes his head. He straightens up in his seat, placing his cup on the table in favour of pressing his palms together. He's thoughtful for a moment. "Starkhaven is independent of both Kirkwall and Tantervale. Sebastian would never hand over control to a central power."

"Not when the Val Royeaux is involved. Sebastian only just retook Starkhaven; they, too, are weak. He will not risk his lands or his people." Hawke gestures at the envelope. "Read that letter. Sebastian declares Starkhaven neutral, yet extends his fond warnings."

"That could mean -"

"- War." Hawke finishes with a quick bluntness. Varric frowns. That wasn't what he was going to say, but still, he pauses. "But only if Kirkwall doesn't submit," Hawke adds. "They'll try to do it politically, most likely. Little by little, until they squeeze me out of this throne or throttle the life from my throat."

"Enough of that talk," Varric waves the comment away. "You're going to keep your life, and you will deal with this; you always manage to find a way. Plus, you're as lucky as a horseshoe and that counts for something." He chuckles softly, clapping a hand onto Hawke's shoulder. "Have you told your council yet?"

"We suspected it," she replies.

"And what are you thinking to do?"

Hawke turns to Varric, silent for a beat. Then slowly, "Submit."

"Without a fight?" Varric asks, unconvinced. "Doesn't sound like you."

"I'll have to weigh the options. We'll find out more next week when the Orlesians come. I cannot provoke them. I don't want to give them a reason to prematurely start a war."

Varric snorts. "Well good luck; those Orlesians will take offence to just about anything."

"I'll have to try," Hawke says. "But you know, I also need to explore my options in the event of an attack – which is where you come in."

"The ladies always did call me the heroic type," Varric says, his chest puffing out slightly.

"Your enthusiasm is a comfort," Hawke smiles. She looks around the room once more, then speaks low, "I know that you maintain a spy network for your family with the Dwarven Merchant Guild."

"That's an unconfirmed rumour."

Hawke smirks. "Right; well hypothetically speaking, you're good at that type of stuff."

The dwarf raises an eyebrow. "Hypothetically, yes."

"Then hypothetically, would a rather large lump sum from the Viscount's treasury entice you to be under Kirkwall's employ? There are uses for those shiftier talents."

Varric grins, smoothing down the folds at the front of his shirt. "Now you're talking my language. What did you have in mind?"

Hawke returns the smile, glad for old friends. "Well first, drink your ale. And then tell me how you feel about Nevarra."

* * *

><p>Isarius is soaked from knee to brow with blood. It's not his own and he hardly notices it, only wiping away the splatter from his eyes and mouth. Five against two. Unfavourable odds, but Athenril and him had been fighting side by side for the better part of three years. They knew each others' steps and strikes. Where Athenril preferred to bound and evade, Isarius liked to aim and charge. Five slavers met steel, fast.<p>

Athenril wipes down her blades, sitting on a crate that didn't seem _too_ dirty, even for Dark Town. Isarius rolls over the dead bodies with a foot, an after-battle grin plastered on a red and almond face. The dog boy is there, too, now. The useless kid had dived behind the corner when the fighting erupted, emerging again only when it was finished. Not that Athenril expected the young ones to fight. She just wanted them not to be scared. Isarius points at coin purses and trinkets for him to gather and the boy obediently follows.

She shakes her head at the meeting gone sideways. Slavers and her troupe had always had bad blood.

Isarius leaves the boy to loot and comes to join Athenril. He crashes down on the ground beside her with a happy grunt. "Our evening exercise probably warrants a couple drinks – one for each slaver, at least. We should go to the Enchanted Elk." He grins up at her. "I'll send the kid home and we can rematch in wicked grace."

"I wouldn't want to take all your coin again." Athenril says with a small smile. Her cloth moves quickly, polishing the last bit of her daggers clean. She inspects the blade front and back, then sheaths it, satisfied with her work. "You go," she states. In warm gesture, she reaches down and trails a finger underneath his jaw, scraping away blood and tipping his chin up towards her. "But Andraste's ass, draw a bath first." She makes a point to wag her bloodied finger at his face before wiping it clean.

The Rivaini looks down at himself, plucking at the once-white shirt that clung to his chest. He chuckles. "I suppose I should. Blood monster isn't the best tavern look." He cocks his head towards the looting Ferelden. "Perhaps I'll stay in, then; the boy's at an age where he ought to learn how to play wicked grace, anyhow."

Athenril eyes the boy with distaste. She can't understand why he thinks that would be a good way to spend an evening. "Why do you keep him around?" Athenril asks. "Do you like collecting shadows?"

Isarius shrugs, taking Athenril's discarded cloth to clean his own battle axes. "He's quiet; I hardly notice him. He's far from it, but with some mentoring I think he could be fine in our ways."

Athenril wants to roll her eyes. It's just like Isarius to see potential where there is none. His optimism is a waste of time. What appeal is there to a kid who would freeze at his own echo? "He's going to get attached, you know. One day you won't be able to shake him off your leg."

Isarius just shrugs again, not looking up from his task at hand. "I don't mind."

"You won't," she pauses, thinking about herself; thinking about all the times she'd escaped death so slimly, about the decisions she'd had to make to be where she is now. She gets up from the crate, ready to move again. "- until you need that leg to run."

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><p><em>To have for a moment is better than to not have at all<em>. The thought flashes through Bethany's mind among other things; it's a jumble, really – she can't quite think straight when she's biting her lip and groaning and stifling a moan.

They're up against the viscount's desk and Hawke's fingers are curled into her. Documents that Hawke had made seem so important before now lay scattered on the floor in their heated frenzy. Hot wet lips press kisses to her pulse, and Bethany closes her eyes, allowing herself to be carried away by the sensations. She's not usually the vocal one, but keeping quiet proved hard when her lips begged to cry out.

It's a new type of thrill, being together in the day light; _in the viscount's office,_ of all places. City guards and Templars alike were stationed below their very feet. Hawke flips Bethany, bending her over the desk. Using one foot to nudge either of Bethany's heels apart, she continues her handiwork.

The council meeting is in a couple hours; the guests from Val Royeaux are going to arrive soon and despite Hawke's reassurances, Bethany is still nervous. They both know the meeting will hold no pleasantries.

"_Maker, Hawke."_ Bethany breathes. Her robes are hiked up almost past her ribs, and all she can do is brace herself against Hawke's experienced touch. The day is early and her sister has more energy than usual. Maybe they're both a little high strung today, in need of release.

Hawke presses her lips against her sister's ear. "_Shh."_

The meeting's agenda was briefly explained by a contact the day earlier. Knight Commander Ferran of Orlais, Grand Cleric Selam, and Seeker Nadine were the leaders of the arriving party. With them, travelled a troop of 100 Templars to be stationed Gallows for the duration of their stay.

The thought alone made the remaining Circle magi cringe. Templars from Val Royeaux itself. And yet the circle had just started getting used to its new freedom.

"_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fu-"_ Hawke's hand is over Bethany's mouth before she can make another sound. She brings her to the brink before flipping her once again, onto her back. Bethany throws her arms around Hawke's neck, and in an instant there are slender fingers tangling into raven hair. Her hand locks Hawke in place, forehead against forehead, eye to eye. Hawke's stare is intense, and after all this time Bethany finds that Hawke can still make her nervous.

Hawke's breath is laboured between kisses and their crashing bodies. "I've missed you. I -" she gets out, finding Bethany's lips again – like she can't decide between talking and having more. "I want to . . ." more kisses, more twisting fire from hot touches, "to go away with you."

Bethany's head isn't thinking as it should. She moves against Hawke's hand, drawing out dizzying waves of pleasure. She lets herself get lost in the feeling; eyes closed, cheeks flushed.

"We could get away." Hawke continues. Her hand circles Bethany's thigh, fingers tender against the wanting flesh. It's a warm sentiment - Hawke is so strong but she treats Bethany with an uncharacteristic softness.

"Kirkwall -" Bethany breathes deeply as Hawke's tempo increases. "Kirkwall needs you."

"Screw Kirkwall. I'd let it burn to have you."

Bethany thinks to protest - to remind Hawke of the thousands in her care, of the city that she guides, and how she could never abandon such a great amount of people in need. She means to tell her that she's small and unimportant, and that Hawke is fixated when she shouldn't be; but she can't think of anything else aside from the tingling up her spine and the arching of her back as she feels the beginning of an orgasm course through her. Hawke gives her what she wants. She sends her over the edge. Bethany feels it in her fingertips, wave after wave of pleasure rippling from her core outwards. She's quivering by the end of it, exhausted by the euphoria. It takes long for the pulses to subside and for her lidded eyes to open again. Hawke holds her. Presses kisses to her damp brow while she waits, brushing matted hair behind reddened ears. Hawke might be talking but Bethany doesn't listen to the words, just the sounds. She nuzzles her face into Hawkes neck, content to stay there like a babe. Yes, she should like to go away with Hawke one day. But after. After Kirkwall is sorted and things are calm.

Time passes slowly, but soon enough there's a knock on the door and Bran informs them that the guests have arrived. They dress and Hawke goes over a couple things that Bethany should say should she be addressed during the meeting.

The foyer is already filled with people – nobles, courtiers, guards, and government officials, eager to receive the arriving party. Even Aveline is there, standing near one of her ranks with a watchful eye. Hawke stands at the landing above the first flight of stairs, whereas Bethany stands at the bottom. Hawke catches her eye and gives her a reassuring nod.

It's minutes before great doors to the hall creak open, the Kirkwall escort stepping through first. He stands on parade as the doors are pulled open, revealing a large party of 30 or so Templars and a handful of people in fine clothes – Grand Cleric Selam is easily distinguishable behind her guards. As reported, the Seeker and Knight-Commander are there too, standing near the front of the procession.

The escort waits until they file into the hall and the doors fully close behind them to do his booming introductions. The group walks deeper into the keep in a uniform formation, coming to stop at the bottom of the stairs. They look scary. They're too serious, with their chins raised high like they own the place.

Bethany steals a look up at Hawke. She's looking down at her guests from behind the railing, getting ready to speak.

But then the Orlesians do something that no one expects. The Knight-Commander raises an armoured hand, pointing it directly at Bethany. "Get the apostate" He barks.

Bethany blinks, confused. Her? She barely has time to open her mouth before a fist pummels it, drawing blood.

Bethany is disoriented, head lulling back as her world gets blurry. It happens in a matter of seconds and suddenly three Templars surround her pulling her backwards by either arm.

"What the hell is going on?!"

It's Hawke, nearly leaping down the stairs with a furious cry unbefitting of a Viscount.

There's a collective gasp from the reception party, but nobody moves a muscle – nobody except Hawke, Aveline, and a couple guards who are unsure if they should draw their swords. Aveline is the first, she brandishes her weapon as she, too, steps forward.

A line of Templars get in their way and the Knight-Commander speaks. "It was made very clear that the meeting be free of threats. We won't have an apostate who was instrumental in the Rebellion standing in the Grand Cleric's presence."

Bethany feet stumble to gain purchase on the ground, so as to not be dragged, but a strike to the back of her head makes her world go black. The last thing she sees is Hawke, face contorted with anger, mouth speaking words she can't hear past the buzzing in her head, knocking back Templars to reach her.

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><p><strong>AN: First and foremost, I'll just clear up that Lord Hadir is king of Tantervale. I didn't really explain it in the text. As well, I refer to Hawke as Viscount, when it should really be Viscountess. This is a confusion that arose while reading Dragon Age Wiki where they call Hawke Viscount based on the male default. So I'm actually not going to fix that unless somebody has objections. . . I like the sound of Viscount better. I understand it's like calling a princess a prince, but I'd always thought Viscount as a gender-neutral term anyway. **

**What do you think?**

**On another note, it was pretty quick update since I had about half of it written already! ****I had some writer's block with the last scene there, and instead wrote some other drabbles that I'll somehow fit into later chapters. **

**That first scene between Bethany and Athenril is actually how this whole story got started. I was enamored by the idea of these old acquaintances meeting - bonded only by a distant memory - in a situation where their distinct personalities could really shine through. So that scene has actually been written for a very long time.**

**I don't have very much to say in this A/N, other than thanks for reading and the next update will probably take longer since my next couple weeks are busy. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Rated T**

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><p>Bethany wakes up in a holding cell.<p>

She spends a long moment adjusting to the blazing headache resting just behind her eyes, and then checks to make sure none of her bones are cracked. Flesh wounds are easy to heal - reforming marrow? Difficult. Especially in her weakened state. After a quick once-over, she discovers no serious injuries; just an echo of the earlier impact – the aftermath of being pummeled by an armoured fist.

Maker. She'd never been hit so hard in her life – or hit directly, for that matter. She'd been in her fair share of fights, most of which were a decade ago. Even then, her magic would always keep her out of range of attackers. If that failed, her companions had always been there as the final barrier.

She supposed if Hawke or Aveline had been hit, they wouldn't have gone down as she had. They were warriors and used to being on the front line – they'd taken harsher blows regularly. Andraste, she must be weak. Or the others must be so strong.

Maybe it was a bit of both.

She was laying on a splintering wooden bench, the only piece of furniture in the cell aside from a metal bucket. It was Gallows again; she'd recognise the weathered cement anywhere – her personal prison textiles - even in the dim light of the dungeon. In her time, she'd been down to these cells on occasion, but never inside one. It was discomforting. Or rather, the uncertainty was discomforting. They had attacked her in front of all the nobles of Kirkwall; in front of the city guard; in front of _Hawke_. Why? To assert their authority and make of a show of it, that much was clear. They had given themselves leverage on the already-taut and frigid tensions between Kirkwall and western Thedas. But what came next?

Did they mean to reinstate the right of annulment? Were they to hold her there until they made her tranquil?

Hawke would never allow it; she was certain of this. But then again, Hawke wasn't there.

From the single window at the very end of the corridor, she could make out a faintly orange sky. The sun was setting, so she'd been knocked out for a while now. Was it that morning that she'd been hit, or had she been asleep for days?

Uncertain and still exhausted, Bethany laid there and continued to wait – though for what, she wasn't exactly certain. _Something_, she supposed. From what she could see, she was the only one in the dungeon. She entertained the idea of breaking out. She was weakened, but she could try to bend the bars with her magic – or melt the locks . . . But then what? Put Hawke's reputation and influence at risk by becoming the criminal sister? Give the Order the mage hunt that they were itching for? She'd never make it out of the Gallows alive.

She would stay. If they came to annul her, she'd fight them to her last breath.

But for now, she would stay.

Her thoughts drifted to troubling tendrils. Her sister had been right: the effects of the Rebellion had rippled and Orlais was determined to keep their reins on the city. Kirkwall had bigger battles to come.

* * *

><p>It was late evening when Hawke finally came to visit. Bethany heard the heavy steps and clinking of Templar armour before they rounded the corner. And then Hawke's stern voice.<p>

"I know the way."

"We're to escort you as long as you're on the perimeter," replies one of the Templars. Bethany stands when she hears them approach. She grasps the bars gently, leaning into the cold steel.

"Last I checked_,_ _I _was the Viscount of this city."

"The Gallows is under the jurisdiction of the Chantry,"

"Funded by Kirkwall, which I run. Now wait here, _guest_." There's a bite to Hawke's words, and if Bethany were in a better mood, it would have made her smirk. Hawke can be so fierce.

There's some grumbling, but when Hawke reaches the cell, she's alone – the Templars having stayed at the end of the corridor.

Hawke's face is hard-set – as Bethany expected – but seeing her sister seemed to fill her with colour.

"Bethany," she breathes, relieved for only a moment. Then the stony expression is back and Hawke is looking her over. "Andraste's ass, look at you. Are you hurt? Did you heal yourself?"

"It's just some bruises; nothing worth healing." Bethany says. She's relieved to see her sister, too; though Hawke's tired and angry look makes it far from a happy reunion.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier. Things have become complicated," she grimaces. "Very complicated." Hawke grips the iron bar tightly, so that the whites of her knuckles pop and bulge. Fury transforms her features and she talks through a clenched jaw. "If I could only get my hands on that Orlesian filth for what they did at the keep."

"It's okay, Hawke."

"No, it's not okay. If it wouldn't start a war, I'd have those bastards' heads by now. The audacity to come into my city and target _you_ – not just anyone, but _you_ - Maker, I would just –"

"I said it's okay, Hawke." Bethany interrupts. She slides her hand over her sister's, and gives a reassuring squeeze. "It was just an intimidation tactic. They meant to make an example, and they did. We'll not give them the reaction they want." Her voice sounds more confident than she feels, but it seems to do the trick. Hawke's eyes settle and the ferocity is held at bay. "Now, tell me about your meeting."

"After they did their little demonstration?" Hawke seethes. "Worse than we could have expected. They made themselves very clear – the Chantry still has jurisdiction over their Circles, and they're here to reinstate it."

"They're staying?"

"For the time being."

"But how can they do that? Kirkwall isn't their city." Bethany's brow creases. This city belonged to Hawke, now. They couldn't just come here and take control of it, could they? That would mean that everything her and Cadence had worked for in the past year would be for naught. Things would be back to the way they were before the Rebellion, or worse. Things could be much worse.

"If I don't allow them their rights to the Chantry and the Order, they'll have an Exalted March against Kirkwall within a fortnight." Hawke says. She looks apologetic, as if somehow this is her fault. Bethany knows it's not. She knows that this is the type of stuff that keeps Hawke in councils all day with advisors. They'd foreseen this ever since the Rebellion. "They're upset as it is that they didn't get to appoint a Chantry-puppet as viscount, like Dumar. Kirkwall used be the center of Chantry strength in the east. They want their influence back. If I don't let them have their way for now, they could wage a war that Kirkwall cannot hope to win." She pulls her lips thin, letting go of the metal bars. "I will protect you from the Orlesians while they occupy the Gallows, but things will be different now."

Bethany feels a sinking in her stomach. It's the same sort as the day she'd been taken to the Circle. A mixture of fear, an expectation of oppression. "Will more of them come?"

Hawke's answer is quick and certain. "Yes." It does nothing to quell Bethany's anxiety. Hawke's expression softens, ever so slightly. "Don't worry sister, I will figure this out. Until then, you must be careful."

Bethany swallows, and then nods dutifully. She trusts Hawke.

"You be careful, too." Bethany says. Then another thought hits her. "When will I see you next? Will they have us holed up here as before? Will we see each other still?"

Hawke's face hardens, and she shakes her head. "Less," she says. "But I'll figure something out."

* * *

><p>Athenril stands idly by side of the street, tucked into an alleyway. She watches gold-trimmed steel pauldrons clink past in the pretentious way of Meredith's time - back when the Order wasn't a useless band of ornate suits of armour. She stayed hidden until the patrol passed, then attached herself to the back of a group of walkers and continued on her way.<p>

That would be twelve Orlesian templars she'd seen since midday. Their patrol route seemed relatively simple - squads of four, armoured and alert, doing a basic sweep of the main roads. Their presence in the city was the start of a cesspool of rumours. It was all anyone could seem to talk about. In fact, if she cared enough to listen in to the people shuffling in front of her, or those working in front of their properties, she'd probably hear more of it. Kirkwall always had a penchant for gossip.

People just loved to speculate:

Hawke had invited the Orlesians. Orlesians were invading Kirkwall. The Chantry was taking over the city (and some were glad for it). Hawke was resigning viscouncy.

The most common rumour was that this was the beginning of an occupation, much like the Orlesians had done to Ferelden all those years ago.

Athenril considered some of them, but for the most part she called bullshit. She'd get her information from a credible source, not some bored commonfolk who would take whichever side cried the loudest. Either way, templars from Orlais was bad for business. She'd gotten a taste of it that morning when she went to bribe her usual guardsman for access to the waterway. Annoyingly, he refused to turn a blind eye until the Orlesians were out of the city.

So it was off to her second choice - a less convenient passage through one of the gates before High Town.

When the group she's camouflaging in takes distraction at a merchant's stand, she breaks off from the main road and slips into the trails behind the houses. It's a short cut, anyway. She pads along between the rows of houses and the stone wall that they back, until she reaches a set of stairs. She pauses at the bottom, hearing voices and some sort of scuffle from where the stone takes a turn. There's a grunt and the unmistakable sound of somebody getting hit in the head. A mugging, probably.

She takes a step forward. Normally, she wouldn't bother risking the chance of getting involved via proximity to these kinds of things; but unless she wanted to scale the wall, the next set of stairs was a good 10 minute walk _away_ from her destination. If anything, she was more than capable of holding her own if they gave her trouble. The elf takes another step and means to peek around the corner to see how many men there are, but there is the distinct sound of steel clanging against stone and a city guard comes toppling down the steps near her feet.

He rolls onto his stomach and struggles to stand up quickly, clearly on the offensive. His lip is swollen and protruding, letting a slow but steady stream of blood run down his neck until it disappeared under his chest plate. He spares Athenril a brief glance, but his attention remains at the top of the stairs where two templars were descending.

Instinctively, Athenril lowers her center of gravity and reaches for the dagger hanging on her belt, one foot springing backward in case she had to make a run for it. She would have preferred to have not been seen at all, but it was too late for that. She makes eye contact with both the templars, each of them large and stoic.

"Move along, knife-ear. We're on business for the Order," one of the templars spat. They brushed past her, closing in on the city guard who had just gotten to his feet. Neither guard nor the templars' weapons were drawn, which Athenril found peculiar; it but put her at ease. Nobody was dying here.

She looks between the guard and the templars, contemplating leaving as they suggested. She should've, but maybe it was 'knife-ear' that brushed her the wrong way. Or perhaps she was just feeling argumentative today.

"I'm just passing through," she says cooly, hand leaving the hilt of her dagger to a more casual position. "Just as you are, I'm sure." She says, and her tone makes it impossible to miss the suggestion.

The templar spoke again. "I said _get going._ For someone with such big ears, you're bloody deaf or something."

Athenril sucks the inside of her cheek, if only to hold back the comeback that would surely get her into trouble. Instead, she offers a thin little smile that curls the corner of her lip smugly. "Sure thing," she replies. She takes a deliberate step and then pauses, turning to the guardsman - a young thing with brown curly hair - and nods to him. "By the way, Rael and the rest of the patrol are wondering where you are. I thought I saw them headed this way to get to the courtyard. You better have a good excuse for leaving your post, else you'll get reamed out by all six of them."

The guardsman stares back at her, and after only a moment, nods in understanding. "Don't worry. I'll be sure to tell them I had business with these two templars. It's good to know they're close by," he says, looking directly at the templars as he speaks.

The two templars exchange a look. It's one that Athenril recognizes - the same look that her and Isarius give each other when they're surrounded by Carta and they should jet while they can; when a deal looks like it's going south, and they should split with the money; when they're offered a job but it's on Coterie territory. It's the 'this is a job for another day' look that she can tell means they're weighing their odds against six other guardsmen, and not liking the outcome. Finally, one of them exhales an irritated sigh. He grunts, but it sounds like a spit. "You got off easy, guardsman." He says, jutting a finger at the man. "You can hide behind your patrol today, but soon templars will outnumber the city guard three-to-one. And then we'll see."

The two templars turn abruptly to walk back up the steps in which they came, but not before shooting Athenril a fiery glare. The elf waits until their shadows disappear beyond the curve of the steps before allowing herself to look away. Templars, three-to-one? Maybe Kirkwall wasn't the best city to stick around in.

"Thanks,"

Athenril hadn't noticed, but the guardsman had come to stand beside her. "I didn't think I was going to get out of that one." He offered an eager little smile and held out his hand. "I'm Callum. Your bluff was risky, but I'm in your debt for it."

Athenril looks down at the hovering hand. She considers asking him what they wanted or what they were doing in Kirkwall, but decides that she's already pushed it with this stranger. Too much exposure for absolutely no gain. Another stupid move, as decisions of impulse usually tend to be. "Just remember it, Callum. And take care of that bloody lip."

She gives him a final look before turning away, leaving him to retract his unaccepted handshake. She's glad that he's not dumb enough to call out or try to follow her. She slips into the cracks between the houses again, making her way to the second set of stairs she'd contemplated earlier.

She'd already wasted enough time today.

* * *

><p>The safehouse is lit by a crackling fire pit in the center of the room. It's one of a handful scattered throughout the city, all equally shabby – but they served their purpose. A bed, a fire, and a place to gather; a semblance of a home for whatever lackeys she has under her care at the time. She doesn't sleep there. Sometimes Isarius does; he doesn't mind being with the others - he'll sleep in whichever place he feels tired at the end of the day.<p>

But Athenril prefers to remove herself from it. It's not personal. She has her own home. It's not better than the roof she offers her workers, but it's her own. Somewhere private to stow away what few belongings she thought held permanence; a place to leave her business behind, even if only to return to it in the morning. Being there is what it feels like to settle down, she thinks. And she likes it.

Athenril closes her eyes, head resting against a bundle of cloth she'd tucked under her neck. She rests on the bench with her feet kicked up, listening to the laughter and soft voices of those by the fire.

Isarius is there, too, drinking dodgy liquor pilfered by one of the workers that day. Athenril's first thought had been _"Is it poisoned?",_ whereas Isarius' first thought had been to taste it. He made a game of determining its brand.

That was the difference between Isarius and herself. It was no wonder they liked the Rivaini better; always drawn to him, always seeking his approval. Athenril didn't mind. It was a business, not a popularity contest. She was lucky to have a partner with such sway on the crew. It saved her half the work of getting recruits to stick around.

Some of the crew are in their hammocks, asleep and exhausted by the day's work. Boxes. Boxes upon boxes that needed transferring. The merchant wouldn't notice for days, by which time Athenril would be onto her next job, without so much as leaving a trace.

There's another who hasn't gone to bed yet, talking with Isarius in content tones. He's cooking a small piece of meat over the fire, laughing at some story the Rivaini tells of time spent at sea. Perhaps there is a home here, too. A fondness behind all the business. Athenril sees it time and time again; of bonds being made, only to be broken; of stories being told, only to have the storyteller move on, out of her troupe, taking their tales with them. People fill their places, there are always new people looking to make coin. They're disposable.

Athenril doesn't participate. She prefers things to be black and white – her relationship with the others is first and foremost that of an employer to her workers. When people get close, they stop being cautious; they become too familiar, and often think they have a _say_ in how the group is run. Athenril avoids that.

There's a knock at the door.

The three of them don't really pay it any mind, it's probably a stray worker coming back for the night. Maybe it's the dog boy; Isarius had been asking about him earlier in that evening. Isarius approaches the door, bringing his liquor with him. He moves aside the flap to look through the peephole.

"Who is it?" He calls, bringing his face close to the door.

There's a bang.

The door explodes off its hinges and Isarius is knocked backwards, sent flying across the room. Splinters of wood fly through the air like confetti and the doorway is filled with broad figures.

Athenril's on her feet in an instant, grabbing the draggers that are piled at her feet. Her armour is still on, which is a plus. She spares a glance at Isarius on the ground. His forehead shines with blood, but he's moving, trying to re-orient himself. Not dead.

Good.

"Up!" she yells to rouse the rest of her crew. They look up from their hammocks, uncertain of what the commotion is about. The one who'd been cooking at the spit grabs for the fire pick, brandishing it as a weapon. The tip glows orange with heat.

Athenril counts five heads at the door, all of which are men. They start to pile in and Athenril moves quickly, bounding with her daggers set to strike. She gets one slice in with her first dagger, a thin red line forming at the man's chest, and then is knocked back when she swings with the other.

Athenril's ready again. Wasn't it just the other day they'd taken on five men? This would be fine. This would eas-

Easy?

She feels a binding force on her, and suddenly she can't move. Her arms are concrete, her feet glued to Their spot. For the first time in years she feels panic. Magic. Magic is binding her.

She doesn't know how to fight magic.

She means to say something, to yell for Isarius - but much to her dismay, she can't move her mouth. She only shifts her eyes, watching the scene unfold. The worker with the fire poker bounds forward with his own attack, only to have his advance blocked. The man grabs the weapon from his hands and turns it on the worker himself, pressing the orange tip to his cheek. There's the distinct sound of flesh sizzling and a loud cry.

Athenril looks to Isarius, and for the first time she is scared for his well-being. He's getting up, but stops mid-way, one knee on the ground. He's bound, too.

It's relief, yet it's not. It means they could be dead, but instead they're bound. Dead later is better than dead now.

Which is a lot better than she could say for the rest of her crew, who were still scrambling to get their weapons and launching themselves at the intruders.

The smallest man of the five steps forward, removing his hood to reveal a neatly styled and and oil-slicked head of black hair. There's a smug, malevolent grin on his face, accentuated by a strange thin mustache atop his upper lip that hinted of Tevinter fashion. He bows deeply to Athenril, and when he lifts back up from his bow, he tosses his hands out wide, anouncing himself with a thunderous, booming voice. "_I am Mavren_!"

The firepit roars as the flames come to life, growing tenfold in a split second and igniting the room with unbearable heat. Arms shoot out from the growing inferno, blasting a pillar of fire to every crew member still standing in the safehouse. It's a terrifying display of power as the embers lick blue and red, swirling around the empty space, swallowing up the bodies of those it claims. They're turned to a crisp before their screams can echo. The flames retreat back to the firepit slowly, vacuumed in by some magical force. It's eerily quiet as the bodies of Athenril's crew hit the floor with several '_thud'_s. She feels her stomach twist as the stench of burnt flesh fills the room.

The mage's grin nearly splits his face right in half.

He looks around, giving a satisfied nod for his work. Then, with another bow, he acknowledges the elf. "You must be the beautiful and cunning Athenril. What a pleasure."

Athenril and Isarius' binds release, just then, and they both collapse to the floor. With a roll backwards Athenril is on her feet again, ready to leap and bound at a moment's notice. Her daggers are by the firepit, so she'd have to make due with a different weapon. Scoping out the room for potential things to stab the mage with, her eyes settle on the fire poker not too far from where she was standing.

Mavren follows her quick gaze, chuckling. "There's no need to be rude, my dear. You'd hate for that to end up in someone's eye," he says innocently.

Sweat drips down Athenril's forehead; her entire body is damp with perspiration. The only person not seemingly affected by the heat from the earlier inferno is the mage. A million scenarios run through Athenril's mind, testing out different options. She still hasn't said anything yet; she only returns his greeting with a steely gaze.

"It's the contact I met in Starkhaven," she hears Isarius say. He comes to stand beside her, hands clenched into fists. They had no hope of defeating the mage - _that_ much was clear; so when Isarius' elbow brushes against hers, it's a small comfort to know that whatever this was, they would face it together.

"Yes, I did meet you in Starkhaven," the mage says. He presses the tips of his fingers together, starting to pace slowly. Like a stalk before a predator pounces. "However, that meeting yielded rather . . . _disappointing_ results." He gives an apologetic smile. "You see, I was rather hoping that if I came in person, you might change your minds. I had put on the table an offer that any small-time business owner would be crazy to refuse." He pauses, voice laced with impossible concern. "You're not crazy, are you?"

He's met with silence. "You're not as talkative as you were in Starkhaven, Riviani." He gestures at the room around him. "Was it this? How I disposed of your entire crew in seconds, with relatively no effort on my part?" A chuckle slips past his lips. "Hmm, that does put a damper on our relationship, doesn't it? I apologize; I do often get caught up in the theatrics. It's exciting, don't you say?"

"What do you want?" Athenril finally asks.

"Ah, the Riviani did mention that your tongue only knows business talk. Then business we shall talk!" He claps his hands together.

"You want us to move your lyrium." Athenril states.

The mage tips his chin up at the elf. "Precisely."

"Get the Coterie to do it."

"I could . . ." He taps his chin as if he's considering it. "But they're a thieves guild. A very large one. They lack the finesse of a specialized group."

"They have more resources. They'll get your job done."

"An army of hired criminals can't keep a secret. A couple of smart smugglers can." He says, with a hint of a smile. "Plus, they're a bit too widespread for my taste."

"By that, you mean they'd be too hard to control." Athenril says, skipping the bullshit.

"You don't dance, do you?" He asks, looking bemused.

"Barely."

Isarius speaks up with a barely held venom. "How do you expect us to run our troupe, when you've murdered all of our men?"

Mavren gestures at the men behind him. They stand stoically with no expression, hands clasped behind their back like a well-trained group of guard dogs. "I've had my men watch you since we last met. I know you have other safehouses and other workers. You have what you need to get the job done."

"And the job is what, exactly?"

"Getting lyrium to the templars. Your instructions have changed with the recent activity in Kirkwall, as you can imagine; but your details are written here." He pulls out an envelop from his robes, waving it at Isarius before tossing it by his feet. "I'll honour the rates I offered in Starkhaven."

Athenril nearly scoffs. The payment meant nothing next to the damage he cost her by wiping out her crew. "And if we refuse?" Athenril asks.

"That wouldn't be wise," he warns. "Your first shipment starts tomorrow. Is this a business deal we can agree on?"

"You've agreed for us, it seems." Athenril crosses her arms.

The mage chuckles. "Then I am glad we've come to an understanding on this." He motions one of his men to step forward. The man holds a burlap sack. He unties the string and turns it over, letting the contents drop onto the floor. There's something hard that hits the ground, as well as something soft and wet. In the dim orange light, she strains to see what they are.

A coin, bearing Athenril's mark. The same she gives to her lackeys when she sends them to go meet contacts, so that they know the information comes from her. Beside the coin are two severed fingers; the blood is relatively fresh.

The mage's eyes dance with a sick type of merriment. "Here I am with the theatrics again, but he seemed to be of sentimental value to you. He said his name is Leven."

The dog boy.

"You fucking dead man!" Isarius erupts, lunging forward. Athenril is quick to slam a palm into his chest, holding him back. She silences him with a look, but she can feel him vibrate with rage beneath her fingertips.

"After this lovely chat, I don't think you would run - but it's an insurance policy nonetheless." Mavren says, a smug grin creeping onto his face. "You'll get the boy back after a month of service. Just think of it as . . . a loyalty deposit."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hey! It's been a while. I actually wasn't planning on continuing this until much later, but the story got a couple of reviews which kind of reminded me that I should probably get back to it now that I'm done school! **

**I hope you like the installment. We are still slowly trudging along the plotline. ****Hopefully we'll be able to mash Athenril and Bethany's paths together again soon. **

**I wanna make a note that Isarius was inspired by this awesome illustration of a genderbent Isabela (which you should totally go take a look at) - ** on pretend-animator's tumblr: /post/72437407657/genderbend-isabela

**Have a good one! And drop me a line if you want to chat!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Rated T**

* * *

><p>"That's two mages killed in the last week, Hawke." Aveline says. She stands in the viscount's office, holding her reports. Mages were never her business, but lately, their business had become impossible to ignore.<p>

Hawke scratches at the arm of her chair, her mood souring by the second. "I know," she replies.

"What of it, then? The people are scared. The templars are kicking down their doors, sweeping the city as if apostates live in the very bricks of this place."

"It's their job to bring mages to the circle," Hawke says.

"Really Hawke?" Aveline frowns. _She_ of all people should know that the people deserved better, as did the mages. "And killing them, too?"

"I'm simply stating that I cannot reprimand them for doing what they're supposed to do." Aveline scoffs, but Hawke continues. She's right, anyway. "They kill mages who refuse to go to the circle. They've always done that."

"Maker's sake. And what mage would willingly go with _them_ after all this?"

"Any mage who's smart enough to." Hawke replies. There was no hope in fighting the templars on the functions of their duty, even if it they _had_ been administering it with an iron fist lately. But it was to be expected. This was their response to the rebellion - a stark reminder that templars still had a rightful duty. Even Hawke couldn't deny them that. Aveline grouses. "I'll have you know that I'm trying my damn hardest to avoid a war."

"Is that so? Because it looks like you're letting the Orlesians sack the city."

Hawke looks away, irritated. She hated fighting with Aveline; she had made enough enemies this past month and she didn't need her oldest friend turning against her, too. Even if she said the things Hawke wishes she could.

Things were spinning out of her control quicker than she had anticipated.

All this talk about avoiding a war, yet war had never seemed so imminent. Even with Empress Celene butting heads with Duke Gaspard, Orlais _did_ have an agenda. And it most definitely involved Kirkwall.

Aveline shuffles her feet and looks around in her awkward way. She hadn't come in here for a fight, but damn Hawke for being so stubborn. Could the viscount afford nothing of consequence? "I'm sorry," Aveline says, gruffly. "Tensions are high in Kirkwall. It's making this job . . . more difficult." She stretches her fingers, hearing the creak of leather from her gauntlets. "The templars have been roughing up my guards, too. I've had them stay in pairs."

"A good precaution. They're trying to shake up Kirkwall from the inside out," Hawke says. _And succeeding_, she thinks. She sighs; a long, drawn out thing. "I don't know how to fix this. I've sent for help,"

"Starkhaven?"

"They won't." Hawke says. Starkhaven had their own reasons, but it was disappointing nonetheless. She scratches at the arm of the chair again. Had her crown always felt this heavy? "I've sent Varric to Nevarra."

"Nevarra," Aveline repeats, slowly. It was the large nation that lay between the Marcher cities and Orlais. A warmongering kingdom with a bloody past and a bad relationship with the Orlesians. "Would the sick king come to our aid?" she asks. Not that Nevarra hadn't tried to take the Marches for themselves only a generation ago.

Hawke shakes her head. "No, he's deranged and at the mercy of the mortalitasi; but there are those who might see our reason. If Ferdinand Pentaghast can be convinced to take the throne, he might fight with us."

"Another old man." Aveline says, thinking back to what she knows of Ferdinand. He had no interest in becoming king; but surely Hawke knew that already. "Why would Nevarra get involved in our affairs?"

"Because it's Nevarra's affair, too." Hawke says. "If Orlais takes Kirkwall, they'll have the entire Free Marches. They'll have Neverra surrounded in the east and the west, and by then there will be no question of who they will take next. It's what they've always wanted."

"Then they need us," Aveline states. Her back straightens and she stands up taller than before.

"Yes, they need us."

* * *

><p>Bethany sits in her room, transcribing texts from an old spellbook. She'll need them for her lesson later.<p>

It's been a month and things had gone back to the way they were before the Rebellion. Cadence didn't return from Cumberland. She hadn't answered any of Bethany's letters, either, so it was unclear what had happened to her. So she was on her own to deal with the strict conditions at the Gallows. It was even worse than before.

The templars kept the mages isolated; all letters were carefully monitored, and most never made it past the front gates. Mages spoke to each other only during lessons, which were always meticulously supervised, and there was to be absolutely no contact otherwise. They were suspicious of any gatherings; anything that could possibly provide the mages an opportunity to band together again and rise against them. As if they _would_ - at this rate, the mages were more likely to wither away and off themselves than stage another rebellion. But the Order was insistent.

Hawke hadn't come to visit, either. Surely, it wasn't her choice. She must be busy. Hard pressed to keep the balance between giving Orlais enough power to satisfy them, but not enough to overtake the city. Or perhaps she wasn't allowed to visit. Or . . . Something. Hawke would visit soon, she was certain. She always did.

Bethany shakes the thought, focusing on her task at hand. The lingering aches of loneliness that she'd become accustomed to in her first years in the circle were back. But this time, she felt utterly alone. And there was no First Enchanter to give the mages a voice.

She hears the lock to her door jar and click, then a groan from the wood as it swings open. Two templars stand at the doorwar; one man and one woman. "Come," orders the male.

Bethany puts her quill down. She wasn't supposed to have cleaning duty until later that evening. "For what?"

"Your Harrowing."

She feels her stomach clench. Harrowing? She'd done that ages ago, and it was in no manner an easy ordeal. "I've already passed my Harrowing."

"You're re-doing it," the templar says. The other templar holds out a pair of wrought-iron cuffs. Bethany stands, allowing her to clink the iron around her wrists. They walk her down the winding corridors in silence.

"Why are they re-testing us?" Bethany asks. She doesn't receive a response.

They climb a set of weathered steps until they reach the Harrowing room; a large dome-shaped room with a single window in the middle of the ceiling. Sunlight pours through the window in a single stream, illuminating a basin in the center of the room. Inside is shimmering blue liquid. She can feel its presence as soon as they enter - like a whisper dancing on her skin, beckoning her forward. She's familiar with it.

"How did you get the lyrium?" Bethany asks. Hawke had ordered a lyrium purge, but she'd always figured they'd have a certain allowance since all Harrowing rituals required it. And all templars did, too.

Again, there is no response.

She looks around. There are six templar knights in the room, and one mage that she doesn't recognize. One of the templars wears a helmet, and she knows from the previous Harrowing that that is her appointed 'executioner', should things go awry. _Or if I take too long to pass_, she thinks grimly.

"I haven't prepared for a Harrowing," Bethany says, speaking nervously as they lead her toward the basin. She feels her heart start to pump faster, a cold sweat forming in the creases of her palms. The woman templar removes her cuffs. "Does everyone have to get re-retested?" she asks.

A different templar approaches her now; one that she'd often seen walking with knight commander Ferran. "Yes," he answers. He holds a hand out to the basin. "You know what awaits you, Bethany Hawke. You will enter the fade and face a test that our mage has set up for you."

Bethany nods. Yes, she remembers.

"If you cannot resist the demon within your Harrowing, us templars will exercise our duties of the Order. You will not leave the fade, in that case. Your body will be destroyed."

Killed, is what they mean.

"May I have a moment? I've only just been told about this," Bethany says, and she tries not to make it sound like a plea.

"No," he responds. "If you are not ready now, then you never were." Again, he gestures at the basin. "Go now."

Bethany takes a cautious glance to the templars, starting to form a semi circle around her. She makes eye contact with the mage there, who gives her a reassuring nod. She wants to ask another question, but she knows she's been rambling nervously ever since she left the room. Perhaps her allowance of stupid questions is used up. They look irritated already; or don't they always? They eye her like she's vermin and it makes her stomach turn. To it, then. Bethany swallows down her nerves and takes a step towards the lyrium. The closer she gets to it, the quieter everything else seems to become. It draws her in, like a call. She stretches out her hand above it, feeling its energy pulse through her.

Slowly, she dips the tips of two fingers into the blue liquid. It's ice cold and like a shot of adrenaline. The liquid glows and a shimmering blue cloud of mist emerges, spiraling up her arm. She feels a tug and suddenly the walls around her fall away; the dark of the Harrowing room turns to unbearable brightness, and the templars are gone.

She is in the Fade.

* * *

><p>It's Leven who eventually finds them first. Mavren's men had dumped him just outside the city walls and he had stumbled his way back through the city. Of course, it took a couple of days for him to find them. All the old hideouts had been changed, and he could barely find a face he recognized. Naturally, his feet brought him to the Hanged Man, where he pestered the patrons about Athenril's whereabouts. He had bothered Corff so much over the span of a couple days, that Corff sent word out for Isarius to retrieve the pest and take him from the establishment.<p>

So he returned.

Athenril's poring over some inventory logs, feet draped lazily over the side of the hammock she's laying on when Isarius walks through the door. He has Leven in tow, following closely behind him like a lost soul. If he was quiet before, he was quieter now. A sad little thing with three fingers on his right hand. At least they were the good fingers - his thumb, pointer, and middle fingers were still intact. The other two were just uneven stumps, still scarring over.

Athenril doesn't say anything to him and Isarius just gives her a nod. He leads him to one of the back rooms without a word.

_What a waste,_ Athenril thinks. What a damn waste.

_"I'll get our coin out of storage while you find us a boat," Athenril says as soon as Mavren's left. "I'll meet you by the docks tonight."_

_"We're leaving?" Isarius asks, incredulous. "They have Leven."_

_"To the fucking blight with Leven. You saw what that mage did. We're getting out." _

_"We can't leave him, Athenril." _

_"I really don't give a shit about that boy. If we leave, we have to do it _tonight_."_

_"Mavren will find us. Maker knows he probably has his men watching us right now. He expects us to run."_

_"Which is why we stick to the shadows and slip out of the city. If we act fast, we can be on the water before the morning."_

_"Leven will die -"_

_"As he probably would elsewhere. Maker, let that boy go," Athenril seethes. "You want a dog? We can get you a mabari."_

_Isarius' face hardens, not appreciating the comparison. "I had a duty to take care of him."_

_"You had no duty. You owe that stray dog nothing. I take care of my own, yet my crew lays as ashes on the ground. This has gone to shit," she says, clenching a fist. This was one too many deals gone bad. She'd seen this type of thing before and not once had it ended nicely. She wasn't going to stick around to die for some Ferelden that Isarius had gone soft for. "Are you with me, or not? Because I'll leave without you."_

_"If you leave and I stay, Mavren will kill me. You know that."_

_"Then don't put me in that position."_

_"Athenril, please." Isarius says, brow hard-set with determination. "I've never asked you for anything."_

_"Yes, you have."_

_"It's only a month. We'll save our coin and set sail for Rivain as soon as Leven is returned. It's easy work."_

_"It's bad business, Isarius."_

_He gives her a little smile. "Isn't that our trade?"_

Maybe she'd gotten sentimental with time. A couple of years ago, she would have left without a second thought. People are easy to leave behind. It's better to leave them before they leave you. She's always known that. But when she had gone to the port and found a sailor who agreed to take her down shore a day's journey, she felt an uncomfortable tether pulling her back. She refused his business because he wanted a ridiculous sum for the ride. But she knew it wasn't about the money. It was a poor excuse that did little to make her feel less the fool.

The truth was, she didn't want to be alone. People often died around her age from sickness or blade, one way or another; she knew this was her final stretch before she would settle down. And if she learned anything from the past couple of years, it was that a hard and disappointing life could be made tolerable by a few good companions. And now, she had but one.

Athenril was sure that a time would come when her and Isarius would part ways; but for the time being, she valued his company. He was the one person she could trust.

The thought had stopped her from boarding that boat - the thought that perhaps, _that_ was worth more than running.

For now, anyway.

"I'm gonna give him a bow," Isarius says, as he comes out of the back room. "I think it'll cheer him up." He's optimistic. He has a bounce to his step that Athenril recognizes - one that makes it's way into his step when he's content. He shuffles through a chest of unused parts; taking out an old short bow that needed assembling. "He can't hope to hold a dagger now, but he can probably still shoot."

Athenril looks back down at the inventory logs, flipping a page. "You can do what you want. He'll be useless anyway."

* * *

><p>Bethany's inside a cave now. It's an old mining shaft, like the ones filled with spiders and darkspawn, back when Hawke would take her on her odd jobs. She reaches the center of the cave, looking around at the high walls and endless stone.<p>

She doesn't know what she's looking for. Everyone's Harrowing is different.

The ground beneath her starts to rumble, fissuring with an unknown force. She thinks to move to the side of the cave, where she can hold onto a wall, but the floor quickly smooths out underneath her feet, hardwood sprouting from where she stands. A table rises from the ground, and a chair to go with it. The walls collapse inwards, closing in to create the frame of a house. She looks behind her; a fireplace is crackling with a family portrait above the mantel, familiar faces staring back at her. She's standing in the Amell estate.

She looks around curiously, taking a few experimental steps. The smell of a delicious stew fills her nostrils and she follows the path to the kitchen. Her mother is there preparing dinner. Like a casual thing, Leandra minces some herbs to add as a last minute spice to the stew. She looks well; just as she would have been years ago if she hadn't . . .

Bethany gulps. "Mother?" she calls out, tentatively. It's hopeful and weak sounding, and does nothing to cover the shiver she feels at seeing her dead mother looking very much alive. _This is the Fade,_ she reminds herself. But it doesn't stop her stomach from dropping so low she think she might be falling. She hasn't seen her mother in . . . oh Maker, too long. Before the circle. "Mother?" she calls again.

The ghostly figure perks up, but only because Carver has called out her name from the dinner table. Bethany's head turns. Her father, Malcom, is there too.

She can't stop the tears from brimming up at her eyes, but she holds them there. The sight of her long-dead family is overwhelming but she must try to keep control of herself. _This is only the Fade,_ she thinks again. A reminder; a chant. She blinks, and for a second she thinks she sees tombstones, but another look and it's really them. Her brother and father, sitting at the small oak table. She walks up to them, but they don't seem to see her. Malcom is holding a basket of Ferelden bread, placing a roll on each of the empty plates.

"Come eat, mother," Carver says. He looks younger, but not by much. Or maybe she's the one who has grown old, and it's been so long since she's seen him. "We're starving here."

"We have to wait for the girls," Leandra replies, sternly. "Marian said she'd have them back before sundown."

Bethany feels a crippling wave of nostalgia. This was a memory. It had to be. It was vague, even as she tried to recollect it, and her father had already been dead when this happened - but this was a memory from her home in Lothering. Back when Hawke was only known by her first name.

As if on cue, the front door opens and a younger version of herself and Hawke walk in. Their faces are dirty and they're covered head-to-toe in soot.

"Look at you!" Leandra calls when she sees them. She shakes her head at the sight.

_Why are you so dirty?_ Bethany mouths, before her mother can even say it.

"Why are you so dirty?" Leandra asks, concerned.

"Fall in the chimney again, sister? Or did Bethany fry you?" Carver asks, snickering.

Hawke looks unimpressed. "Yes, I could do with a little warning the next time you set the forest on fire," she says to the younger Bethany, low enough so that their mother won't hear.

Bethany, still shy and meek, mumbles her apology.

"Come on," Hawke nods towards the table. "Let's eat."

"Not before you clean yourself up," Leandra says. "Don't trek that dirt in the house. I don't know what you girls have been up to, but I don't like the look of it."

Hawke gives a hungry groan, putting her leather satchel on the hook by the door. She starts up the stairs, motioning Bethany to follow her.

The noise mutes, but the scene remains. A figure appears beside Bethany, walking close as if she'd always been standing there. It was a pale-skinned woman dressed in fine, billowing green robes. She would have looked friendly, if not for the sharpness of her eyes and mean crook of her eyebrows.

Bethany, who had been enthralled in watching, blinks at the apparition.

_"A lovely sight, isn't it? The Hawke family together again. A fine desire,_" the woman says. Her gaze is piercing, making Bethany's skin crawl with discomfort.

"This is only a memory." Bethany says, quietly. "Are you the demon I am meant to face?" she asks, feeling it's a silly question even after it leaves her mouth. She shuffles, her toe catching on a piece of uneven hardwood that is typical in a Lothering home but not a High Town estate.

The woman chuckles, lacing her fingers together in front of her. "_I am Narissa,"_ she introduces, with a slight bow of her head. She gestures at the scene, as if she is presenting some great prize. _"Time is a malleable thing. Would you not give anything to go back to this?"_

Bethany looks back at her family, thoughtfully. It's a happy reunion, full of merriment. Safety. Malcom is saying something she can't hear to Leandra, causing Carver to giggle. Leandra walks over with the pot of steaming stew, placing it on the table. She wishes she could hear her father's voice again.

"This isn't real," Bethany says, frowning.

_"Isn't it?"_ Narissa prods, softly. _"Is this not your family? Are these not memories, lived out?"_

"My family is dead," Bethany states. She's faced desire demons before. The only defense is practicality. Though losing yourself in their dreamscapes is all too easy; one must reiterate the truth often. "Hawke is all I have left."

_"Out there, maybe."_ Narissa says. Her voice is softer than her appearance, like an old friend or a wise and benign stranger._"In the Fade, nothing is impossible. This is the spirit realm. They exist here because you make it so."_

"But it's not real," Bethany says again.

The scene fades and suddenly she's in the room upstairs with Hawke. This time she is _in_ the memory, rather than watching it.

Hawke is kissing her fiercely, hands grabbing at her thighs, dipping into her shirt. She takes a moment to register what's happening, but then she is kissing back; all hands and tongue, lips and heavy breaths. She's sitting on the bedroom table with her feet dangling off the edge; Hawke's body is between them, leaning into her.

"We have to eat dinner," Bethany says between kisses. Hawke is relentless and Bethany doesn't really want to stop. "We should -" Hawke nips at her ear, elliciting a soft gasp. She feels it reverberate all the way down to her core and then back up again. She finds her voice and reminds herself of what she ought to say. "They're waiting for us, Marian."

Hawke lifts Bethany's shirt above her head, tossing it onto the ground. "Your clothes are dirty," she says, a playful smile on her face. "We have to get you out of them." She goes to kiss Bethany again, who giggles against her mouth.

"We'll be found out!" Bethany cries. Hawke bites her lip in response.

She leans into Bethany's ear, hot breath sending shivers down Bethany's spine. "Then you should be more quiet," she says, huskily.

The scene skips and they're back in the dining room, Bethany again watching herself from afar. The whole Hawke family is seated at the table, chatting as they did once. Bethany reels from the sudden change, finding herself disappointed that they were not allowed to continue.

_"Was that not real, Bethany Hawke?"_ Narissa's voice says, cutting through her thoughts. When Bethany looks for the demon, she is nowhere in sight. She stands alone with Narissa's voice echoing around her. _"Is your heart not still beating wildly; is your blood not bright and burning? Your sister incites something fierce in you. Do your lips not tingle, still?"_

Bethany touches her lips. They do.

_"I can give you your family. Not out there - but here in the Fade."_

"I-I can't-"

_"Don't you miss them?"_

Bethany can feel the tears brimming at her eyes again. She looks at her family. "So much, it's unbearable." Malcom. Carver. Leandra. Marian, not Hawke. She misses all of them.

_"Then allow me to reunite you. Give me control of your body, and I will give you the ability to see your family. For as long as you want; without templars searching for you or your father, without the blight driving you out. A real home."_

"I -" Bethany stumbles.

"_What say you?"_ the voice booms, so much that the Hawke family looks up from their meal curiously, staring straight at Bethany. There's something dark and eerie about it; something not entirely human, not entirely real, and it scares her. She takes a couple steps backwards, holding onto the counter before her legs can give out.

Her eyes squeeze shut, blocking out the image before her. She forces the nostalgia away, the aching pain that she's been carrying for over a decade. The guilt. The want. The loneliness that might carve its way out of her heart and into her lap. "I can't. It's not real," she breathes, reiterating the truth. And with a stronger voice, "And you are a demon."

She keeps her eyes shut until she feels the ground beneath her shift again.

* * *

><p>Athenril watches from afar as her crew unloads the boxes off the gondola. She stays in the shadowed pillars of the nearby storefronts.<p>

The water is still, shimmering gold and white with moonlight. She briefly thinks about the last time she went swimming. Scratch that, the last time she went for a _leisurely _swim that didn't involve ditching a boat being sunk to shit by slavers. It was over a decade ago when she had been stationed in Cumberland for a time. Definitely not in these murky waters. It was strange to think back to such times. Another different chapter in her life - for what? For more work and new, dirty faces.

She hardly had any time for herself. She needed a damn vacation.

When the boxes are all loaded into the wagon, Tolgar waves his hand in a circle above his head, indicating a wrap-up. If she squinted, she could make out the burn on his left cheek from where she stood. He was the sole survivor from Mavren's attack. He had played dead when the rest of them had fought to their last breath. They burned while he hid. A clever and lowly ruse.

She doesn't blame him.

The crew throws a tarp over the gondola, then secures the gate on the wagon. After a minute, a worker hops into the back of the carriage and the horse starts to draw it away on creaky wheels.

She's about to leave when a shadow moves in her peripherals. Her head turns toward it. At least she _thinks_ it moved; it may have been a trick of the light.

But she never dismisses details.

She leaves her spot, walking towards where she'd seen it in the alleyway. Her hands instinctively find the daggers slung on her back, pulling them out without a sound. The stone archway looks still as she approaches, and she peers in - but it's jet black and she can't see a damn thing. Holding out one of the blades, she lets it catch the moonlight, directing the reflection into the alleyway.

It catches on something. There's a glint of metal and suddenly she's raising her blade to parry the battleaxe that comes crashing down towards her head. There's a ear-splitting war cry from the wielder, followed by more from behind him. She bounds backwards, putting space between her and the two, three, four men spilling out from the shadows. Coterie men.

A piece of hair falls from her bun, landing like a feather on her cheek. She blows it out of the way and watches warily as the four men file in front of her, brandishing their various weapons. "You the knife-ear in charge?" one of them asks through a sneer. He juts his sword out to her.

Athenril readies her stance and she twirls her dagger in anticipation. "I always am," she responds.

"Get her."

The first charges forward and swings his battleaxe again; she darts to the side and dodges the blow. She sees an opening as his blade crashes down into the dirt and lunges forward, burying her dagger into the crook of his armpit.

"Bitch," he grunts, as he falls to his knee.

The next is already attacking, slashing horizontally with his sword. She ducks down, avoiding the hit. He thrashes forward with his wooden shield and she rolls backward before it can smash her in the face.

A spear comes straight for her from a third man, but she parries the tip to the ground, twirling as she jumps forward and gets in a double-slash on the wielder. She kicks him out of the way.

In a moment, the swordsman is standing in his place, shield held high in a defensive position. He balances his sword at the top of the shield, like he might stalk forward and poke her to death. She matches his footsteps, taking note of how he drags his hind foot every time he advances. He takes a quick three-step and thrusts forward with his sword; she raises her blade to deflect the blow, then cross steps to the side. He spins to face her, keeping his front covered by his shield.

Athenril breathes heavily, eyes darting between the remaining two Coterie members. The shield bearer was shuffling closer, taking cover behind the bulk of the wood. The other stays back, sword at the ready.

Athenril sheaths one of her daggers, reaching to the back of her belt where she keeps a smaller throwing knife. She holds it behind her back, squeezing the cool metal and waiting to see their next move.

"Who supplies your lyrium?" The one with the shield demands. His breath is ragged too, though he continues his slow edging forward.

Athenril crouches down lower, lining herself up with her target. She envisions the trajectory of her knife, making sure her aim would be perfect. She smirks. "Wouldn't you like to know," she says as she spins, tossing the throwing knife with graceful speed. It zips past the first Coterie member's helmet by a hairpin and plants itself straight into the other's eye. She anticipates the cry before she hears it, sputtering and guttural.

Athenril doesn't take time to look if it had hit her mark. As the man looks back at his fallen partner, Athenril bounds forward, launching her whole body into the air. Her feet land on the shield first and with one swift movement she jabs the blade of her dagger into and out of the man's neck before they hit the ground. With a roll, she's disengaged with the body and already on her feet.

Her eyes sweep the docks and she can feel her pulse pumping a fast and steady beat, trying to compensate for her short but exerting battle. There didn't seem to be any others waiting to jump in. She _hoped_ there weren't any others waiting to jump in. Maybe these fools thought four would be enough. A mistake she'd seen time and time again.

Three bodies lay strewn in the dirt; the last was the man who had taken the knife to the eye. He was turned onto his stomach, one hand clenching his wound, the other trying to drag himself away.

Athenril walks up to him, placing a foot on his back and pushing him back to the ground. She grabs a fistful of his hair, yanking it back so that she can see his face, knife-protruding from eye and all.

"You think this is over?" the man croaks, blood running into his mouth and decorating his crooked teeth.

"Yes. I do." Athenril says evenly, as she brings her blade to his throat and slices it from ear to ear.

* * *

><p>Bethany finds herself atop of a mountain now. She's still in the Fade, but everything looks crystal clear and the view is breathtaking. She admires the scenery, though the Black City interrupts the peaceful image out on the water's horizon. It looks ugly and out of place; a black cloud hanging over a distant, ruined castle. But she was used to its ever-presence in the Fade.<p>

Narissa stands beside her.

"_There is much outside the walls of the Circle,"_ Narissa hums, looking at the beautiful landscape as well. Her eyes linger on the Black City, and then move on. _"The Order has taken much from you."_

"The Circle exists to protect mages. From themselves and from others." Bethany says, eyes not leaving the view. "But yes, much has been taken. I would have liked to travel."

_"You have time,"_ Narissa says. _"Your body is healthy. Many years await you."_

"Things are more complicated now. Even in the Circle, there is no safety."

_"And yet, even your family cannot convince you to stay in the Fade,"_ Narissa comments, almost chiding her. She shakes her head, much like Leandra did at the sight of her daughters earlier.

"That was not my family; only a luxurious lie." Bethany breathes. Another reminder.

_"Aren't most good things only a luxurious lie?" _Narissa asks, an amused chuckle slipping out from behind perfectly symmetrical red lips._ "Although, I suppose you smarter than most mages. They are not as real as you once knew them to be, and I can see that you would not be satisfied with that."_

"Grief is a terrible thing to play with," Bethany responds. She hasn't been in the Fade long, but she feels exhausted. Seeing her family had surfaced something in her that she'd spent years pushing down. Damn the demon for bringing her there. The faces haunt her, even as she closes her eyes and feels the cool breeze of the mountain top. She can feel the sun kissing her cheeks and if she listens carefully, the sound of leaves rustling and birds calling. The Fade is a wonderful illusion.

_"Oh, but effective." _Narissa smiles dubiously.

Bethany's eyes open and she looks at the woman. A manipulator, as most demons are. A malevolent spirit. "I passed your test, demon. When can I leave?" she asks.

_"Nervous the templars might kill you if you take too long to return?"_

"They've been known to do that. They expect the worst." Bethany says, and she can't stop the troubled look from entering her features. The templars were in no means hesitant when it came to their duties.

_"They're tricky creatures,"_ Narissa says, agreeing. _"But I won't keep you long. I see something unique in you, and so I have a different offer. Something you can take back to your world; something tangible."_

"I don't want anything from you."

_"Your desires are projected into the Fade. I can see what you want, because in here, you make it a reality."_ Narissa says. She starts to pace around Bethany, like a hawk might circle a mouse before swooping in for the kill. _"You want your family, but you know you cannot have them. It breaks you." _She says, watching as Bethany's expression hardens._ "You want your sister, but that is not an acceptable choice in Thedas; nor would she give up her duty for you,"_

"I wouldn't ask her to." Bethany says, finding offence in the suggestion.

_"And she wouldn't allow it; even if that is what she truly desires. Hawke has always put duty and others before herself. She would never choose you over the thousands in her care. You know this in your heart."_ Bethany looks towards the landscape again, rather than look at the demon. She does know this. Hawke speaks without weight. No matter what Hawke has told her, she knows that as long as Kirkwall needs her, Hawke will belong to it. She would see it well. It was . . . her nature. "_There are others. Desires not as prominent, but enough to pass through your mind regularly." _Narissa continues._ "You want to free the mages. You want to see Thedas. You want to get out of Kirkwall - eventually, with or without Hawke. You won't die there." _Bethany eyes her. She hadn't been exposed to a desire demon since her last Harrowing. How her secrets spilled out like casual knowledge was irritating. Was anything hers anymore?_ "You want love that won't be reciprocated in fragments and cloudy messages; maybe a family one day. You want peace. Power. Luxury, for once." _

"I don't lust for power." Bethany says defensively, as the list turns more sour.

_"All people want power. It comes in different forms, is all. You want the power to control your own destiny."_

"That doesn't make me singular."

_"I am simply stating what I see. You dance a fine line between hope and hopelessness; ambition and passivity. You want a cause that is not beyond your reach. You want change. And __I know above all else, Bethany Hawke; you desire freedom."_

Bethany crosses her arms, starting to feel impatient with the growing list. "Another thing you cannot grant me," she says, frown deepening. She wants to leave. She's heard enough of this demon's diatribes. She knows what she wants; hearing them only makes them sound shameful.

_"Not alone, I can't. I offer you a deal. You know better than anyone what it's like to be alone. A good team has endless possibilities. You and I could eliminate the templars."_

"I don't want that."

_"You've always been a leader, Bethany. You've been in the circle for half of your life, and it's stowed away your potential. I can unleash it."_ The winds start to pick up on the mountain top and Bethany struggles to keep her footing. Tree by tree, rock by rock, the scene blows away, replaced by familiar pale and weathered bricks. The bricks fall into place, assembled by the forceful winds, and they stack themselves into the shape of a corridor. It's the Gallows now. Narissa and her start to walk among the halls, brushing past templars and tranquils who are milling about. _"There is more to life than rules and cages."_ Narissa says, and it's almost drowned out by a crash in the background. A fire spreads in the distance, engulfing the very end of the corridor. The templars alert each other and run towards it, swords drawn. _"A rebellion has occurred, and another comes. You know this."_

From the flames emerges mages, who immediately start blasting their way through the approaching templars. There are loud booms as lightning cracks through the corridors and flames shoot out from staves.

_"You fear this, and the deaths of many, should the rebellion fail. But what if you could ensure their success?"_ Narissa says. The mages fight their way to the main courtyard where templars train; Narissa and Bethany follow them, watching their battle. Bethany supresses the urge to join their side and help them. The templars have now been fully alerted, their powers activating and their swords glowing with impossibly bright light. There are more templars than mages, and they are cutting through them slowly but surely. _"What they need is a leader." _

"Why are you showing me this?" Bethany asks. Her eyes swirl with orange and yellow, reflecting the destruction in the Gallows. More mages have joined them, fighting the hordes of templars. It's a giant skirmish of flashing colours. One mage, who vaguely reminds Bethany of herself points her staff at the ceiling. The bricks start to rumble and crack, and the ceiling starts to shower the templars with falling stone.

_"I am not showing this to you, _you_ are showing it to me. This is your consciousness, projecting what you know to be inevitable."_ Narissa says. They both split as a bout of flame shoots between them, narrowly missing either of them. Bethany feels the heat as it soars by. Narissa faces her, ignoring the chaos completely. _"I can get you your freedom. Together, we can be powerful beyond measure; we can sweep Thedas and lead the mage rebellion, eliminating the Order. Set the mages free, Bethany - you share their plight; end it! You have always wanted freedom and so you must reach out and take it!" _

"I don't want a war," Bethany says, and they must sidestep again as another bolt of blue light whirrs past them. The blue orb explodes and suddenly the courtyard is filling with water, flooding the stone and dirt landing. The water rises fast so that both the templars and the mages are submerged within seconds, and only Narissa and Bethany stand above it. In fact, they stand on the water as if it were solid ground, not seeming to disturb the glassy darkness of its surface.

_"Not a war, a revolution;"_ Narissa's voice deepens to a thunderous growl. _"A cause bigger than yourself, a power you can't begin to imagine."_ She raises her hands out, seeming to look bigger than she already is. Her robes billow around her with an invisible wind. _"I am Narissa, a great an infinite demon. With my help, you can save the mages; you can grant their freedom. Your sister may be the champion of Kirkwall, but _you_ can be the champion of a free Thedas! Feel my power for yourself,"_

An essence leaves Narissa's body; a white, heavy mist that swirls from her chest and enters Bethany's before she can protest. She feels the power surge through her; a smog that seeps through her skin and into her veins, emanating from her skin. It bursts from her eyes and mouth in a way that feels not unlike flames. It's a tremendous power, a dizzying power. A power that makes Bethany feel like, for once, if she wielded it - she could in fact make a difference; she could in fact give rise to a rebellion.

Why shouldn't she, anyhow? She could destroy the templars. She could destroy those who would have _her_ destroyed. Why not end this war, once and for all?

_"With this power, you can not only free the mages, but crush Orlais and give Kirkwall back its hope. You can save your sister and Thedas along with it."_

Was it so bad to give up one body in order to save thousands? It was a fair deal. And the power . . .

Bethany catches a glimpse of herself in the water, rippling furiously around her feet. The image is skewed and contorted, but her body is no longer recognizable. It's dark and double its size, hunching over in ugly angles and cruel curves. The cracks in her black skin glow with a fiery red, like she's bursting; like she can barely contain the power coursing through her and it might break out from her hard, demonic shell. It's frightening and disgusting in the worst way. There is nothing human about it. It is the body of an abomination.

The image strikes a chord within Bethany, ringing a clarity that gives reason through the drunkness.

"I will not have you!" she cries, and with an explosion of red, she feels the energy finally burst from her body in a bout of flames, shattering it to millions.

She feels herself hit the cold cement; knees first, then hands, then hot cheek to cool ground. She's drenched in sweat and she thinks she might still be on fire. It feels that way. Her eyes flutter and she can make out white, blurry figures approaching her. Templars. She is back in the Gallows. The real Gallows.

"See," she hears one of them say. "She did pass."

* * *

><p>Athenril walks through the doors of the warehouse. She imagines she looks like death with her armour smeared in blood and her tousled hair. Based on the expressions of her workers, she probably does.<p>

"What Blight did you walk through?" Tolgar asks, looking up from the sword he's sharpening. "The Archdemon's innards?"

Isarius looks at her with concern. "An attack? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Athenril says, and walks over to the table where there's a bowl of fruit. She takes an apple and heads straight for her office. "Secret's out, though. We wrap up in the morning and find a boat to Rivain. This deal is off."

* * *

><p><strong>A longer chapter this time around. I didn't want to stretch Bethany's Harrowing into two separate chapters. <strong>

**I hope you liked the fight scene; they're probably my favourite to write! Plus, a bit of Athenril kicking ass is always a bonus. **

**On another note, I just finished reading Asunder and I'm almost done The Masked Empire. Asunder definitely helped me when writing the Fade scenes. They're pretty good reads if you want to sink your teeth into some Dragon Age before the Inquisition! **

**Like I said, this will be a looonnng journey to the end. Lots more coming up! Summer's given me a lot of time to write, which is good. And thanks for the reviews, ScOut4It! Good to know at least one person is reading this massive thing, haha. **

**Onto the next chapter :)**


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